


Book II: The Twice Crowned Man

by emmbrancsxx0, mushroomtale



Series: The Change Trilogy [3]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Arthur Pendragon Returns, Death, Depression, Discrimination, M/M, Mind Control, Minor Character Death, PLEASE READ THE NOTES BEFORE CHAPTER 10!!!, POV Alternating, POV Arthur, POV Lancelot, POV Merlin, POV Mordred, POV Morgana, Post-Canon, Post-Series, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sex, Violence, War, also ps. i like a few of my OCs more than i like the actual characters from the show tbh, as always - please excuse any american-spelled words as i am american and just trying my best, i hope you like them too, i know nothing about politics or government matters -finger pistols-, i think i've covered my ass well enough, i'm sure y'all already knew that considering what website you're on and why you're here, oh wait one more thing:, the change trilogy, time jumps, um let's see what else.....
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-01
Updated: 2018-04-01
Packaged: 2019-04-08 00:14:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 159,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14092809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmbrancsxx0/pseuds/emmbrancsxx0, https://archiveofourown.org/users/mushroomtale/pseuds/mushroomtale
Summary: With destiny set off course, Merlin does all he can to ensure Albion is united and Arthur is crowned king; but, as Morgana’s hold over him increases, the throne may not so easily be won.





	1. Chapter 1

* * *

The low rumble of Merlin’s motorbike reverberated along the cracked tar and throughout the Golf. Arthur sat in the driver’s seat, his fists white-knuckling the wheel, but not just because he was secretly terrified of driving.

Truth be told, he was _barely_ driving at the moment. Ever since they broke through the fence separating Anglia from the Dead Zone, their caravan had slowed to a crawl. It was mostly because the quality of the roads were so poor that, most of the time, they had to drive on the grass instead; however, it was also because they didn’t want to draw attention to themselves. Not yet.

They had been in the Dead Zone for over an hour, but there were still miles to go until they reached Winchester. Arthur mind was abuzz with a mixture of anxiety and excitement. How had the city changed? He knew he had said it would always be Camelot, but what if he was wrong? What if he got there and felt nothing but contempt for this new place, built on the foundation of his city?

He couldn’t. They had nowhere else to go. There were no other options. If they were to fight a war, they would make their stand in Camelot. If they were to build a new world, they would begin at home.

Out of the corners of his eyes, he glanced at Gwen in the seat beside him. Her hands were steady on her lap, but her fingers were laced too tightly, betraying her nerves. Leon, Gaius, and Elyan, Archie’s cage on his lap, sat in the backseat. All of them had their eyes peeled out the windows, constantly searching for a threat that lurked in the trees.

In the rearview mirror, Wallace’s SUV towered, a black monolith behind them. Wallace, Lancelot, Gwaine, and Percival, along with everything they could fit in suitcases, were inside the vehicle, their hands no doubt resting on their swords.

Silence hung inside the car like a sixth passenger. Arthur held his breath, and focused again on the motorbike’s rumbling engine. Never had it been such a comfort. Usually, it meant danger. Now, it was the safest thing for miles. The chrome rims on the wheels glinted in the pastel morning light. It had still been dark when they left London.

Merlin led the caravan. He was going slowly, his frame swaying this way and that, and he frequently had to place a foot on the ground to keep the bike upright. He had taken off his helmet, and his neck turned side to side as he constantly surveyed their surroundings. 

There wasn’t much, just overgrowth and trees shedding the last of their leaves that managed to hang on before the long sleep. Autumn had barely just begun, and yet the world was already frigid and bare. But, the further south they went, the foliage became fuller with every kilometre. Merlin had once said, second to Avalon, Winchester was where the Old Religion was strongest on the ley lines. It was what drew all the creatures of magic to the city. As magic bled into the world, it healed the earth around it. It strengthened the land and painted the once green trees in brilliant reds and golds, as if welcoming Arthur home. The colours reminded him who he was. A Pendragon.

Everything around them was still but for the breeze. Whenever they passed through a crumbled village, they saw no movement. In the fields and the forests, no magical creatures were present.

Except for one. 

Dagnija was perched on Merlin’s shoulder, her red tail wrapped loosely about him like a scarf. Every now and again, she stood up on her hind legs and beat her tiny wings, but never took flight. Arthur wondered if she could, or if she would have to acquire that skill with age.

God, was she even commanding enough to tame the wild creatures of the Dead Zone? There was a good chance this wouldn’t work, and they would all end up dead.

Arthur’s foot hovered over the brake, and his opposite knee bounced. He couldn’t take it anymore. He just wished something would happen. Whether it be life or death, anything was better than waiting.

“It’s too quiet,” Arthur said, and found he was speaking under his voice, as though not to break the atmosphere. “I thought this place was supposed to be crawling with magical creatures. Where are they?”

“Hibernating?” Elyan offered. Arthur’s gaze flicked to him in the rearview. All other sceptical stares found him, too, but Elyan only shrugged. “It _is_ getting colder.”

“It’s always cold, it seems,” said Leon.

“And I have never heard of a magical beast hibernating,” Gaius told Elyan, his voice taking on the litany of a professor. “You must remember, these beings are directly tied to the power of the Old Religion. They do not behave as other beasts do.”

“Well, they’re certainly invisible,” Arthur groaned. “Where’s the radio?”

Gwen bent forward and fished through Merlin’s ancient leather backpack at her feet. From it, she produced the walkie and offered it to Arthur. “Be careful what you ask for,” she advised. “We do not wish to meet more creatures than we can handle at once.”

Arthur squared his jaw as he locked onto her gaze. He knew she was right, but that didn’t mean he despised the anticipation any less. He clapped his hand over the walkie, his fingers brushing against hers as he did. Momentarily, it stilled him, taking his breath.

Ever since she learned of his marriage to Merlin, she had not been frigid towards him. In fact, she had been more than civil. Arthur did not know what to make of it, which only caused him to draw away whenever she was present. He hadn’t a clue what to say to her, how to apologise for—what? Not telling her sooner? Having her find out that way? For marrying Merlin in the first place? 

He wasn’t sorry for the latter; but he hated the distance suddenly between them, even if it was only in his mind. He missed the way they used to be. 

Trying to force it from his thoughts, he snatched the radio and pressed down on the button. “Merlin, what’s going on? Why haven’t we seen anything yet?” 

From behind, Arthur saw Merlin’s shoulders drop in annoyance. The air shifted like it always did whenever Merlin performed a particularly violent eye roll. 

“Careful what you wish for,” Merlin’s voice crackled through the speaker after he’d brought his walkie to his face.

Gwen snorted in humour.

“Why does everyone keep saying that?” Arthur huffed to himself.

Another voice cracked through the speaker. It was Wallace’s. “Maybe they all went into hibernation. Over.”

“Ha!” Elyan exclaimed.

“No,” Merlin answered shortly, voice tinny over the airwaves.

“Oh, right, I forgot,” Wallace retorted. “You got a dragon so suddenly you’re lord and master of these things’ sleeping schedules. Over.”

Merlin raised an obscene gesture of two fingers up high so Wallace could see it.

Then, a shadow rapidly streaked above them, blocking out the sun for a brief moment. All conversation ceased, and all necks swivelled up to find whatever had caused the shadow. Arthur saw nothing but hues of lilac-blue and pink scattered with thin orange wisps dyed by the birthing sunlight. His stomach had dropped, and he was at once very careful of what he was wishing for.

“What on earth was that?” Leon asked. His fist was resting on his sword, ready to draw it, even in such close quarters.

Lancelot’s voice came over the comm. “Merlin, I’ve seen that creature before.”

Arthur wanted to groan. _Of course_ , Lancelot would have been the one to actually see the thing! He might as well have been a hawk.

“It was a Griffin,” said Merlin, showing off his own quick vision attributed to his namesake.

A Griffin. Hadn’t Lancelot slain one such creature in Camelot upon their first meeting?

“It’s gone now,” said Merlin. “But it saw us. Arthur, you’ll be happy: We’ll have plenty of company soon.”

Arthur swore under his breath and gripped tighter onto the steering wheel. He worked hard on regaining his composure and lifted the walkie to his lips again. “Let’s get as close as we can to the city before that happens. How soon until we reach it?”

“At the speed we’re going?” said Wallace through the static. “Hour and an half? Two hours? Over.” It seemed very non-committal. Arthur wondered how long it would take if they were going at normal speeds.

“Then we’d better go faster,” he ordered.

Through the windshield, Merlin stowed his radio and put his helmet back on. He revved his engine and kicked off down the road. Steeling himself for the speed to come, Arthur pressed down on the acceleration and shot off after the bike. The SUV brought up the back, keeping in pace.

As they went, Merlin swerved across the road to avoid bumps and potholes. Arthur tried his best to do the same, but it was much harder in a larger vehicle. He never reacted as fast as Merlin, and it seemed his steering was doing more to hit the holes dead-on rather than avoid them. Each time they connected, the car bounced and juddered. Arthur gritted his teeth in fear the tyres might burst.

They drove for nearly forty minutes, but they were no longer alone. As though the Griffin had spread news of their arrival, they were met with dozens of curious creatures along the way. They varied in shapes, sizes, and colours that Arthur did not think possible. Most of them appeared to be made up of parts of different animals and reptiles that should not have been put together. Arthur did not have a name for many of them. There were some he remembered from Camelot, but he could not recall their species.

Gaius knew them all. He would often point at one and draw the others’ attention to it. He was especially spellbound when three bright red phoenixes swept overhead and then disappeared into the trees.

_Cockatrice, goblins, manticores_. He would name each creature, often over the walkie so the others could know.

“Lions and tigers and bears,” Merlin’s voice once cracked over the airwaves when they’d paused to watch the tops of the heads of a group of gnomes hesitantly pop up and down from behind a fallen tree to peer at them; and Gaius had taken the opportunity to reiterate all they’d seen thus far. Merlin seemed humoured. No one, except for perhaps Wallace, got the joke.

Each time they saw a creature, the vehicles slowed. The creatures never approached them. They each kept their distance, watching as though the caravan was some sort of spectacle. Arthur couldn’t decide whether or not they were afraid of the baby dragon digging its talons into Merlin’s shoulder for balance. At first, he was wary, but with each occurrence, his confidence grew. Perhaps this plan would work, after all. 

Soon, they reached the outskirts of Winchester. Fields and woods were making way for towns. The closer they got to the city, the less the buildings appeared in disrepair. It was harder for nature to take back the land with so much concrete and steel, no matter how abandoned. Arthur found himself struggling to breathe. His palms were moist against the vinyl wheel.

This was it. The return home—finally. Why was he so nervous?

Suddenly, Merlin skidded to a stop so quickly the bike spun to its side and kicked up gravel. Arthur hadn’t been paying attention until Gwen shouted his name in panic. Arthur focused on what was in front of him. His heart jumping into his throat, he stomped on the brake, and everyone in the car jolted forward.

“Why are we—?” Arthur began to ask, until he saw the creature bounding down the street on all fours. It was massive, with a giant snake’s head—sharp tongue flicking out and pointed, vicious teeth bared—and the body of a wild cat to give it speed. And it was headed straight for them.

As it got closer, Arthur’s eyes widened in recognition. An old, long-healed wound ached in his shoulder as though it were fresh.

“Sire,” Gaius said, sitting forward. He sounded concerned; he hadn’t with the other creatures. “That is a Questing Beast.”

Arthur swallowed. The creature wasn’t slowing down. In fact, it was gaining in speed as it got closer. It did not appear afraid in the slightest. Neither did Merlin. He dismounted the motorbike and set his discarded helmet on the ground. Dagnija squawked. It didn’t sound very threatening.

“Get him in the car— _now_!” Arthur said frantically, reaching for the walkie.

Gwen held it back. “Arthur, wait! Look!”

Reluctantly, Arthur did as he was told. The Questing Beast was slowing down, a feat that took a few yards to do as it hefted its full weight. Just a few metres from where Merlin stood, the Beast came to a skidding halt.

Arthur didn’t even dare blink. However, he did cast a quick glance at his sword, which was propped up against Gwen’s door. Merlin said it could kill anything. Perhaps it could take on this Beast.

The creature snarled and paced in front of Merlin like a lion in a cage. It’s tail sharply whipped around its body as it turned. Merlin remained still, staring it down. 

The Beast didn’t seem to like that. He stood up on its back legs and swiped at the air. It let out an ear-splitting roar.

“That’s enough!” Arthur decided, his heart beating outside his chest. He ripped open the door and struggled out of the car, despite the frantic protests behind him. “Merlin, get in the—!”

“Stay back! Arthur, get back!” Merlin shouted. He quickly held up both palms and angled his body like a shield between Arthur and the Beast. One hand was held towards Arthur, begging him to stay where he was, and the other was splayed towards the creature as though it were a weapon. And it was.

Arthur halted.

When Merlin was sure Arthur wasn’t moving, he turned back to the Beast and slowly lowered his hands.

“Dagnija,” he said, but his voice did not sound like his own. It came from somewhere deep inside of him. It was foreign—somewhere between human and animal. He continued on in a language Arthur could not understand. With each word, the primordial power in his tone grew. 

On his shoulder, Dagnija stood up and flapped her wings. She lifted into the air until her small body was level with the creature’s face. The sound she made was no longer a meagre squeak. She roared, and it almost matched the ferocity in Merlin’s voice. A small ball of fire was expelled with it. 

The Questing Beast immediately fell back and shied away. It hunched down on its front legs, angling its face to the ground.

“It’s bowing,” Arthur heard Gwen say with wonder.

Arthur was breathless. He hadn’t noticed that Merlin had stopped speaking, or that Dagnija had perched back on his shoulder. Somehow, the two of them together stood taller than the Beast had before.

The Questing Beast remained in a bow as it backed away. When it was at a safe distance, it turned and bounded back down the road.

“Yeah, and tell your friends!” Arthur heard someone holler from behind him. He looked over his shoulder to find Gwaine sticking his head out of the SUV window and shaking his fist. Arthur rolled his eyes.

He looked back at Merlin, who had turned to face him. There was still a slight shadow over his expression, but it was fading gradually until finally he looked like himself again. 

Arthur was constantly trying to reconcile the two parts of Merlin: the part he’d always known that was bright and beautiful and ever-gentle; and the part that could unyieldingly break bones and start hurricanes with the blink of an eye. Arthur could never fathom out how two such vastly different men could inhabit the same skin. 

He collected himself and nodded sternly. “Let’s go home,” he said, and got back into the car. They drove, and did not stop again.

Arthur hadn’t expected to find Camelot’s citadel rising in the distance as they approached the city. He didn’t expect a vast forest to make way for the purple towers of the keep and the wall-walks of the battlements. He didn’t expect a drawbridge leading into a bustling courtyard. He knew none of those things existed anymore. 

Still, his heart sank softly as they passed into the city where Camelot once stood; and he realised, yes, he _had_ expected all those things. Not in his mind, but in his heart.

The reality of it was a different picture.

Winchester was an odd amalgamation of the medieval world and the modern era. Great stone arches and halls made of flint existed on the same streets as football pitches, shut down post offices, and darkened storefronts with tattered signs reading _Everything must go!_ In some areas, the road was tar; in others, it was cobblestone. 

Arthur was aware of his companions in the car flashing him wary glances. He could feel their weight on his shoulders. The only eyes he ever met were Gwen’s, as they both silently assessed what had become of their city. Other than that, Arthur kept his eyes forward, following Merlin through the curving streets, over ancient bridges to pass over the canals and locks of the River Ichien, and along the unkempt gardens spotted throughout the city.

As they continued their tour, getting ever closer to the heart of the city, Arthur’s uneasiness began to drift away. He realised, while he didn’t know what he’d been hoping the city to be, he had certainly been prepared for a lot worse. In fact, he was pretty sure he had been expecting a rubble of ash and smouldering corpses.

Winchester was a modern place with an old soul. Something about it was wild and nostalgic, familiar but so foreign. It mourned for itself, and all the losses it had seen; and it rejoiced in all its new beginnings. The sensation pulled at Arthur’s chest, simultaneously filling him up and emptying him out. London seemed so far away now, and Arthur finally felt comfortable in his own skin in this new world. 

He breathed, relaxing. He’d been so nervous that entering Winchester would feel like a funeral march. But it hadn’t at all.

Winchester felt like coming home. It hurt in a soft, sad way, because home is never the same once it’s left. But the city had waited for Arthur to come back as best as it could. It waited and grew old and waited some more until he was ready to return. It had changed, but it still had the fundamental parts that made it home.

The constant longing he’d felt for Camelot slowly started to ebb away and make room for contentedness. The city began to reacquaint itself with Arthur, to seep into his bones.

When they reached High Street at the centre of the city, they stopped the cars and got out to explore on foot. Arthur inhaled deeply, clearing his head of London. The air was sharp and sweet, with a damp chill of earth and grit twanging its edges. It smelt just as Camelot had after an autumn rain.

High off of the air, Arthur glanced around his surrounds. There were a few cars that probably didn’t work anymore lining the pavements, and vacant shops beyond. There was a round about, next to which was a statue of a crowned man in armour, a shield at his feet and a sword raised like a cross over his head. The name _Alfred_ was carved into the stone base. 

Arthur didn’t know who Alfred was, but he thanked him for watching over the city for as many years as he could.

A large stone hall with a clock tower sat closely down the street, so prominent that it must have been a government hall. Some ivy grew along the outer walls of most buildings, and a number of the roofs of the older structures had caved in.

He looked back at the group. All of them had gotten out of the cars and were expectantly awaiting orders. Arthur hoped he was still up for the task.

“Gwaine, Percival, unload everything from the SUV. The rest of you, split up and look around. We’ve brought enough provisions for a few days, but they won’t last forever. Collect whatever will be useful.”

Arthur paused, and thought about the possibility of finding someone living in the city. He doubted it. The place was a ghost town. Instead of giving a direct order on the matter, he said, “Report anything unusual. We’ll meet back here in an hour.”

They split into groups and headed in different directions down the cracked roads: Leon and Elyan going one way and Lancelot and Gwen in another. Arthur readjusted the pack on his back and started down High Street. Merlin trailed after him, Dagnija still wrapped around his neck; and Arthur could feel Merlin’s eyes on him as they walked. Gaius and Wallace followed closely, both falling behind at points when their curiosity got the better of them. 

Arthur wasn’t exactly sure where he was going. So far, nothing extraordinary had crossed his path. The street he walked down was a narrow one, and steepened as they descended the hill. He got lost in thought, wondering where the citadel had once stood, the exact spot of the training pitch, or where the gates to the lower town had been. It was difficult to tell, as the city had grown so much since it had been Camelot. So much that had once been forest was now built up. But he’d get his bearing soon enough; he was determined to.

He didn’t know how long they’d been walking—perhaps a little over ten minutes—when the street began to widen and the buildings became less modern. A world of grey stones, bricks, and cast-iron loomed before around them. Below them, the cobble streets were uneven under Arthur’s shoes. In this area, more than any other he’d seen so far, he felt a sense of familiarity.

One building in the centre of it all drew his eye. It was set back a ways, as though a gate had once been there to bar entrance. It had three sides, all long and lined with curved stain glass windows, with a stone courtyard in the middle.

Arthur hiked up the stairs into the courtyard and stood directly in the middle of it. “What is this place?” he asked, looking to Merlin.

“The Great Hall,” was the answer. “It’s the only thing left of the castle that was once here. It’s a ruin.”

“Best looking ruin I’ve seen,” Arthur said, lifting a brow at the place. It looked extremely well preserved to him. Its only fault was the filth glistening on the windowpanes from lack of upkeep. That was mostly due to the state of the city around it. The whole world was a ruin.

“It was a museum.”

That made more sense, he supposed, although he never really understood the sense in museums. Arthur huffed, his breath fogging in front of him in the promise of winter, and looked over his shoulder at Merlin. “You know, for all its advances, this world does love to hang on to the past.”

Merlin only shrugged.

Arthur decided, “Let’s go inside.” He made for the iron door beneath the main archway and found it locked. Merlin opened it with a wave of his hand. The rectangle of light cast on the stone floor from the opening door danced with dust and spiders. Gaius coughed slightly when they entered. 

The architecture of the hall was modest by the standards Arthur was used to, but it was just as large as Camelot’s great hall. Four massive pillars lined it on either side, each stretching up to the dark brown rafters of the cathedral-pointed ceiling. A fair amount of coloured light pooled in from the windows, illuminating every stone in the walls. Despite the light, it was drafty and damp inside, and smelt strongly of mildew. It needed a good airing out.

Arthur told Wallace to keep the main door open, and he went to the other exit across the hall. Outside of it was a small garden overgrown with mangled weeds and fallen leaves. A stone fountain was in the centre. Arthur stepped into the brush and ran a finger along the jagged crack in the fountain.

He thought of what the garden, and the Great Hall, might have looked like when it was cared for and in its prime, and what it might look like in the near future.

The building was perfect for rebuilding a kingdom. It remembered what the old world was like and lasted beyond it, enduring into the future. He looked over his shoulder again, where Merlin was standing in the doorway, before once again surveying the garden. He thought he understood museums in that moment. 

There was a plot of earth along the outer wall of the building that wasn’t too overgrown. It looked like it had once been a flower patch. The grass crunched under Arthur’s feet as he made for it and knelt down next to it. He dug a shallow hole in the dirt, scratching away the dulled frostbitten mulch to reveal the rich soil beneath.

He slipped the backpack off his shoulder and unzipped it, and then fished for the box Uther’s ashes were in. When he found it, he opened the lid, and looked at the grey grit. He hadn’t allowed himself to do that since the box was first sealed, and with good reason. It looked nothing like anything a human being should be or ever was, especially a man like Uther. He should have had more—like his first crypt. He should have been put to rest amongst the other fallen kings.

But this was all Arthur could give him now. He poured the ashes into the hole he’d dug and covered them with the upturned soil. Arthur couldn’t give his father much, but he could give him his home. Maybe this way, Uther would watch over Arthur.

Maybe.

Arthur knew, objectively, the creature he’d slain wasn’t his father. It was only his body. But where was his spirit? Arthur did not know, and did not care to dwell on such questions. Uther was in a place where Arthur had never been. Arthur hoped he was at peace, and with Ygraine; he hoped they were proud of him—but he doubted it.

He hoped he could one day make them proud.

Something wet slipped down his nose and landed on the ground. Arthur wiped the moisture from his eye and placed his palm gently on the dirt. “I will bring back our kingdom, Father,” he promised. “I will do right by Camelot.”

Arthur had to believe that was all Uther could have wanted anymore, even if Arthur couldn’t do right by _him_.

Composing himself, Arthur stood up and turned back to the door. Merlin was still in the threshold, his eyes downcast to give Arthur privacy. Dagnija was looking at Arthur with innocence and curiosity, and chirped when he made his way over. As he settled next to them in the threshold, Arthur tickled the dragon under the chin with one finger, much to her delight. Then, he grabbed Merlin’s wrist and gave it a gentle squeeze before letting go. Merlin turned and followed Arthur back inside.

Gaius and Wallace were standing on the far end of the hall, where a giant painting hung high up. It was round and made of wood, had a pattern of white and green, and a man was depicted sitting on a throne on the top half. When Arthur got closer, Wallace turned to him with an amused grin and said, “Got your name on it.”

“Yes, and the name of your knights,” Gaius added. “Although, I can’t say I recognise some of them.”

As Arthur got a better look at it, he realised they were right. His name, along with the names of his men and some names that legend had created, lined the edges of the painting in scripted red and green. He knew at once what the work was supposed to be. It was a Round Table. His Round Table.

He looked at the man in the centre, with the words _King Arthur_ inscribed above him. Arthur wrinkled his nose. “He looks nothing like me.”

“It’s Henry VIII,” Merlin supplied. “It was re-painted in his image during his reign.”

The fact of it made Arthur uncomfortable. He did not like the idea of someone posing as him. More than that, he didn’t know why anyone would want to.

“Was he a decent man?” Arthur hoped, though he thought he already knew the answer. Anyone who tried to rewrite history into their own image couldn’t have been a selfless ruler.

“Never met him,” said Merlin, and he smirked in some private joke, “but I hear bad things.”

Arthur looked again at the king. He wondered if he should leave the thing hanging in the hall. And he wondered if he should install another Round Table instead, one of more practical use.

The others all drifted away as he remained staring up in thought. Gaius opened the double doors on the other end of the hall, and they apparently led elsewhere. He beckoned for the others to follow before starting through. Merlin followed after him, and Arthur was about to do the same. He wanted to see what else this old ruin had to offer.

However, Wallace grabbed him by the sleeve to halt him. It annoyed Arthur for a split second before he realised Wallace was trying to slip away.

“Hey, uh, now that we know there’s no threat here, I think it’s time for me to head back to London,” Wallace excused himself. “There’s a lot my uncle needs to prepare for with Darby and Simmons coming to town. He needs my help.”

“I understand,” Arthur told him. He hadn’t expected Wallace to stay in Winchester. He was still needed in London. _Arthur_ still needed him there. He was too useful at the heart of London’s government to be anywhere else.

Wallace tapped his wristwatch, as though it helped at all as he said, “T-minus two days to the meeting. Remember that, okay?”

“We’ll be there,” Arthur assured him.

Wallace turned to go.

“Thank you for all your help, Wallace,” Arthur heard himself say, and found he meant it. He wasn’t sure if being home had lowered his defences, but Arthur genuinely wanted Wallace to know how much his help meant.

Wallaced stopped and waved it away like it was nothing. “No big deal.”

He didn’t know how wrong he was. Arthur was standing on the same land upon which he’d grown. He was back in his kingdom, the place he loved more than anything. Wallace had a hand in that, in giving Arthur his world back. And now, he’d pledged himself to Arthur’s cause. It would be a long and dangerous road ahead of them all. It certainly was a big deal.

“I mean it,” Arthur stressed. “It’s appreciated, more than you know.”

To this, Wallace gave a soft sort of smirk. It was honest, unlike his usual plastered-on grins. “Yeah, probably not,” he said, and his tone spoke of a hollowness in his chest.

He turned away again, his shoulders arched. However, he paused after a few steps and hovered, tapping his finger against this hip in thought. Arthur didn’t know what to make of it. He watched with perplexity, until Wallace faced him again.

“I ever tell you about where I grew up?”

Arthur pouted out his lower lip in consideration and shook his head.

“It was a city called Boston,” Wallace told him. “I was nineteen when I had to leave, but I still remember most things about it. ‘Specially this one thing. It was this giant—,” he expressed the words with his hands, gesturing a large expanse with the flat of his palms, “Citgo sign. Citgo was a petrol station in the States. You could see the thing for miles, that’s how big it was. Me and my folks lived a few blocks away from it. It was how I always knew I was close to home. Kinda like a North Star, I guess.”

He scoffed again, and shook his head at some memory. “I remember I hated that fuckin’ sign. I couldn’t _wait_ to get out of that town—see the world! Go to college, study geography.”

Arthur narrowed his eyes as he listened. He wasn’t quite sure why Wallace was telling him this, or where this story was going. He couldn’t relate to it at all. Arthur had never wanted to leave Camelot. He couldn’t imagine not loving home. 

“Anyway, that city’s just a pile’a ash now,” Wallace said, shrugging, his voice sombre now. Every line on his expression spoke of grief and longing. Arthur knew that look very well. He wore it whenever he thought of Camelot.

“Every damn day, I wonder if that sign’s still standing.”

At once, Arthur saw him in a way he never had before. Wallace had taken his home for granted. He’d expected it to always be there, no matter how far he roamed. That he could always return to it. To Wallace, the city was so much bigger than himself—permanent, eternal. 

Camelot had been the same once. As king, Arthur knew he would one day die, but his duty was to ensure his kingdom lived on forever.

Now, both cities were gone. Neither of them could ever really go back, but Arthur could at least get close. Arthur, at least, could build a future in Camelot’s memory.

With another vague gesture, Wallace told him, “No place like home.” Then, he left.

 

///

 

The Neo-Druid camp stood outside Penkridge, not far from the Anglican border in the Midlands. It was a proper war camp, Morgana thought, with rows of tents lined along the hills for as far as the eye could see, soldiers training and fighting and eating, and horses whinnying.

There were, of course, some elements she was not used to: ammunition tents for the guns, jeeps and SUVs with clay-caked tyres, the static crackling of walkie-talkies, and electric generators that kept the portable lights humming with power. Morgana did not mind these new things, as they certainly did make life easier.

The camp was a perfect mix of the old world and the new, in her opinion. She had found a balance of the two in her army. Soon, she would extend that balance to the whole of Britain.

Camps similar to this one rested up and down the Midland-Anglian border as more skirmishes broke out between her troops and Darby’s soldiers. Other camps were placed all around Anglia as the Neos held the land they’d conquered or pushed further south. Tents began to crop up in the eastern parts of Wales. More still rested in Scotland; soon, they would find their way beyond the Wastelands to conquer lands further north.

Morgana and Morgause stood inside their tent as the rain splattered down upon the canvas. From outside, the sounds of boots on sloshing mud and far away drill sergeant cries broke against the tent. The flaps shivered in the whistling breeze.

The women were looking down at a map, attempting to decide where they should move their troops next. Each squadron had their own battles to win before the big one—Birmingham. By the end of the next week, Morgana wanted to sack the city. For that, she needed all her troops in the Midland front to converge on Birmingham at the same time. There, she would detonate her weapon.

Once they held Birmingham, the entire midland and northern regions of England would be under her control.

“What about Walsall next?” said Morgana. Her eyes glowed and the chess piece, a cream-coloured queen, slid over the correct point on the map. The rest of the map was spotted with more pieces, white pawns and knights to symbolise her troops, and black pieces of the same where the enemy still held land. And one more, placed directly over London. A black king. 

“Walsall takes us too close to Birmingham,” Morgause pondered. “We will reach the city too soon. We must give our troops more time. Might I suggest first going to Cannock? I hear there is a coven of witches there eager to join our cause.”

Morgana huffed, and tried to be patient. She did not want to wait for her victory. She wanted it now. But she knew there was a careful plan to execute, and they must stick to it. Now was not the time to become too comfortable in her success.

“Very well,” she was saying when the tent flap opened.

It was Malcolm, looking soaked through with his hair plastered to his forehead and droplets dripping down his sharp nose. He had been posted outside her tent as a guard. “My queen, Sir Mordred is here for you. He says it’s urgent.” 

“Send him in,” Morgana ordered. Malcolm disappeared, and Mordred quickly entered. He, too, was wet and chilled with the autumn’s rain. However, his cheeks were flushed with heat, like he’d run across the camp.

“Mordred?” Morgana worried, not understanding the concern on his face. She pulled out a chair under the table. “Sit down. We’ll find you something dry to wear.”

He stepped further into the tent, but didn’t sit. He looked over his shoulder to make sure the flap was really closed and that they were alone. “I’ve just gotten word from one of our spies in London. Arthur and his men have left the city.”

Morgana pulled her brows together and looked to Morgause, whose expression remained even but quizzical. She held no answers, and already Morgana was getting ahead of herself.   Why would Arthur leave London? He had nowhere else to go.

“Leave? For where?” Morgause asked.

“I don’t know,” said Mordred. “But they were headed south.”

Morgana looked again at the map, even though she didn’t need to. She knew what lay to the south.

“They’re going to Camelot,” she said, knowing it to be true.

“That cannot be,” Morgause scoffed. “Not even the Emrys is able to tame the creatures of magic. Unless . . .” She let herself trail off, until at once her eyes snapped to Mordred’s. There was something close to fear in them. “Tell me, did they have a dragon with them?”

Morgana’s worry instantly doubled. Suddenly, Birmingham seemed very far away and she could not afford patience. She tried to tell herself it was impossible for Emrys to have a dragon, but she could not convince herself of it. With a dragon, Arthur stood a chance of defeating her army.

Emrys could not have a dragon. He did not deserve one, especially after the way he’d treated Aithusa.

Aithusa. Morgana tried hard not to dwell on the fate of her old friend. She wondered if the dragon was still alive somehow, waiting for Morgana to find her. It was more likely that she perished with the Old Religion. Morgana could not afford to mourn her; she could only avenge her memory.

“If they did, it was hidden,” said Mordred.

“Then, we shall find a way to speak with Uther. He will tell us what they’re planning.”

Mordred shuffled in a way that did nothing to stay Morgana’s nerves. “We can’t,” he said, his expression wearing the guilt of a bearer of bad news. “Uther wasn’t with their group, my lady.” His eyes flashed to Morgana.

Suddenly, the sound of the rain and the distant shouts were all too loud. It was background noise, ambient and soundless hums that meant nothing. Everything else faded. Morgana turned away to let the information sink in.

Uther was dead. Emrys must have found him out. It was the only explanation. Uther was dead, but he had been dead for a long time. Morgana tried to tell herself this. The first time Uther had died, Morgana had felt it, the very moment his spirit departed from his body. It felt as though she were missing a limb for some time after his death. 

She’d convinced herself it was because her magic had killed Uther. It was her curse letting her know the job was done. It was not because she was connected to him in some way, and suddenly that connection had been broken. Why, then, had she grieved for him, despite her best efforts? 

This time, however, Morgana had felt nothing. It was all the more proof that the creature had only been a phantom. It meant nothing to her. But, she didn’t realise until that moment, the Shade had given her sorrow for what might have been had Uther accepted her. He could have been on her side. He could have loved her, not rejected her. She could have been his daughter.

It was not real, but it could have been—once.

She remembered that empty feeling, like a part of her soul was missing. It had never really gone away after Uther died. She just told herself it wasn’t there.

Distantly, she heard Morgause say, “If Arthur is going to Camelot, it can only mean he will attempt to build an army against us. He is already in a position to do so. Our spy in President Darby’s government had told us of a meeting in London in two days between the provinces. There is no doubt they will decide to go to war with us.”

“Especially if Arthur is there,” Mordred agreed.

“Then, we must strike soon,” said Morgause. “Sister, what will you have us do?”

Morgana was still lost in thought. She didn’t realise they were speaking to her until Morgause’s hand rested on her shoulder. “Sister?” she asked again, a curious and empathetic look on her face. It was rare to see such sympathy in Morgause, and Morgana realised how weak she must have looked because of it.

She steeled herself, and let the meaning of their words catch up to her. Immediately, she decided what must be done. “We were not invited to this meeting in London,” she said. “Let’s attend anyway.”

Mordred bowed his head and awaited her orders. 

First, Morgana again peered at the map. Her eyes burned, and the black king moved to Winchester.

 

///

 

The next few hours consisted of cleaning up their immediate vicinity and taking inventory of what had been left behind during the evacuation. It was tedious work that would persist for weeks as they moved on to the rest of the city, but Arthur tried to remain optimistic.

Hopefully, with time, civilians would move back to the city. Those no longer with homes due to Morgana’s attack could find new homes in Winchester. They could find work repairing the city’s streets and infrastructure. But that couldn’t happen without first laying the groundwork to make the city habitable.

Merlin and Gaius had been tasked with driving the perimeter of the city and casting protection spells to ward off any unwanted visitors. When they returned back to the city centre, Arthur called for the others to stop their tasks for the day and retire to the accommodations they’d picked out for themselves. They would meet again that night for dinner to draw up the next day’s duties.

Arthur and Merlin’s house was roughly a thirty-minute drive from the city centre. It was a Victorian manor turned museum standing in the middle of a park. The forest surrounded it on three sides, which is why Merlin had suggested they occupy the house. That way, it would be easier for him to control the magical creatures that lived in the woods. In theory, Arthur liked the added barrier the creatures served against unseen enemy attacks.

However, when they actually pulled up to the house, Arthur realised it would be impossible to know if someone was in a separate wing of the manor, let alone in the tree line. The building was enormous, and much too grand for two people. In time, with luck, they could fill it with hired help and guards, but for now it was a dusty old building filled with unfamiliar dark corners.

He followed Merlin through the front door. The entrance foyer was dripping in old money. A giant crystal and gold chandelier, most of its lower shingles stolen, hung from twenty-foot ceilings; portrait and landscape paintings adorned the walls, though there were some faded patches where a frame might have been; and a long antique carpet led them to a grand staircase going upstairs. Everything was covered in dust and cobwebs. The once vivacious houseplants had withered and died in their pots, many of which were shattered.

The place had potential, so long as it was cleaned. 

When Merlin whistled, it echoed back to them. “I think I can get used to this,” he joked. He let his duffle bag slide off his shoulder and hit the floor. Carefully, he placed Archie’s travel crate down and unlatched the gate. The cat immediately ran out and trotted away to explore the adjoining rooms. Dagnija squawked and flew off Merlin’s shoulder to follow Archie’s lead.

“Honestly, Merlin, I don’t know what we’re supposed to do with all these rooms,” said Arthur as he walked up to a butler’s stand and ran a fingertip along the top. He pulled a face as he wiped the dust off his finger and onto his jeans. He went over the pros and cons of staying in the city instead, where he could be closer to his men and his council.

“Apart from the obvious?” Merlin answered slyly.

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Yes, apart from _that_.”

Merlin told him seriously, “You’re going to be head of state, Arthur. You’ll need some place big enough to host a lot of people when need be. Some place set apart from the bustle of the city." 

“Provided we have a bustling city.”

“We _will_.” Leave it to Merlin to have faith enough in their future for the both of them. He took Arthur by the wrist and started for the staircase. “Come on. Let’s check out the rest of the place.”

The lower level had clearly been a space for weekend park goers, with a cafe, venue and meeting spaces, sitting parlours, a gift shop, and the like. The upstairs must have been more for business. It was mostly office space, where employees used to sit behind paperwork that kept the park going. So much for all their hard work.

However, there were still rooms preserved to show what life was like for whomever had lived in such a grand house. A few of them were bedrooms, fully furnished, and naturally Merlin bee-lined towards the master bedroom.

He fell into the bed, making the layer of dust on top plume into the air, almost immediately. “Oh, it’s soft!” he exclaimed, his voice muffled into the pillow. “I _knew_ it would be soft!”

Arthur shook his head into a chuckle, but he laid down on his back next to Merlin, unable to help himself. He had to admit, the bed _was_ as comfortable as it looked, all plush bedspreads and more throw pillows than anyone knew what to do with.

Merlin propped himself up to look at Arthur with pleading eyes. “Can we keep it?”

“Fine,” Arthur conceded. “But _you’re_ going to be tidying up all these rooms.”

“Deal.”

Arthur realised the threat didn’t carry as much weight as it used to now that he knew about Merlin’s magic. It was much less satisfying, but Arthur found his spirits were too high to be annoyed by it. 

“You’re happy to be back,” Merlin observed, as though he’d read Arthur’s mind, “aren’t you?”

Arthur considered. The day had been so filled with activity that he had hardly a moment to himself to truly reflect on where they were. His city. His streets.

“It’s strange,” he thought aloud.

Merlin pressed his lips together in compassion. “I told you it would be different.”

Arthur shook his head. “No, it isn’t that. I mean, yes, nothing’s the same, but . . .” He didn’t know how to describe what he was feeling, but he tried. “It still _feels_ like Camelot, doesn’t it? Even the air . . .”

It was easier to breathe there. The ground beneath his feet was smoother, like the earth was shifting to welcome him home at long last.

“It’s like—.”

“We’re meant to be here,” Merlin finished.

Arthur’s eyes snapped to his suddenly, and he found Merlin had been serious. He rolled his eyes. “Don’t start with that,” he said, though he couldn’t deny he agreed. “But . . . yes.”

He propped himself up on his elbows, and Merlin’s eyes shifted to hold his gaze.

“Perhaps this time, I can do what I should have done in Camelot,” Arthur told him, suddenly struck with the urge to leap into action. Time was wasting.

“You will!” Merlin stressed. “You were brought back for a reason, Arthur. You will bring peace back to this land, you’ll see.” 

Arthur tried not to laugh. Merlin’s voice was so passionate as he spoke. He really believed what he was saying. He really believed in Arthur. It was plain to see.

“That, too,” Arthur promised, not wanting to disappoint Merlin’s lifelong dreams. “But I was thinking something a little more immediate.”

Merlin’s brow furrowed, but his confusion transformed when Arthur rolled on top of him and lined his chin with kisses. Arthur worked his hips into Merlin’s, and Merlin’s breath hitched more with every rocking movement.

“Something I should have done a hundred times in Camelot,” Arthur whispered to him. He held Merlin’s arms to the pillows over their heads and laced their fingers together. “You wanted me to, Merlin, I know it. That’s what all those late nights in my chambers were about.”

Merlin’s eyes fluttered, but he had enough control over his body to bite out something insouciant. “Yeah, it had nothing to do with all the chores you had me doing.”

“True.” Arthur nibbled on Merlin’s ear, eliciting a gasp somewhere between pain and pleasure. Merlin squirmed beneath him. The friction it caused was quickly making Arthur stiffen.

“But if I _had_ invited you into my bed,” Arthur posed, bringing his lips fractionally close to Merlin’s. He wanted nothing more than to take Merlin’s mouth, to share the hot breaths tickling his cheeks. “What then, Merlin?”

Merlin ran his tongue across his lips in thought. His expression changed, no longer the subservient country boy in a big city. He was the great sorcerer who commanded dragons.

“I’d have made you beg for it.”

The corners of Arthur’s lips tugged. “Make me now.”

 

///

 

Hours later, the bed was still just as comfortable, maybe even more so now that all the dust had been shaken off and Merlin skin was flushed with sticky warmth. They’d broken in the mattress, if one thing were certain.

He lay on his stomach half beneath the duvet, his back exposed and his arms folded beneath his cheek. Arthur had gone downstairs to get a jar of peanut butter amongst the rations they’d brought from London. He’d returned with a pamphlet he’d found in the gift shop, and chuckled as he read aloud all the sights and events one could see in _this_ _historic and beautiful_ park.

“Sounds like a waste of an afternoon, if you ask me,” Arthur judged once he set the brochure down and returned to digging out spoonfuls of peanut butter from the jar. He was going to spoil his dinner, which Gwen offered to make earlier. She was probably now regretting it. Before, Merlin had planned to help her cook, but time slipped away from him. The sun was setting outside, and it was probably too late to offer his assistance.

Besides, despite his best efforts, he couldn’t bring himself to get up. They still had an hour before they met with the others, but that seemed like such a short time.

If they didn’t force themselves to be functioning members of society, they’d remain locked away in their bedroom for days. It had happened before, on two rare occasions. Once, after Arthur had returned, after months of suppressed urges and dancing around each other; and after a night of fumbling around when they couldn’t control themselves any longer, followed then a week of awkward avoidance. And then, finally, the realisation that they couldn’t live in denial anymore, and they shouldn’t have to. They didn’t leave the flat for two days as they tried to make up for lost time.

Then, of course, there were the days after they married, when Merlin discovered that sex was even better in the throes of post-nuptial bliss.

And now they were back in the city where they’d met, the place in which they’d been through everything. All roads led to each other. For the first time in a long time, everything seemed right with the world—or, at least, it would be very soon. For the very first time, Merlin was optimistic about the future, even though the constant lingering fear it brought still hovered in the close shadows. He wanted to keep them there for now. He wanted to stay in the light with Arthur. In Camelot.

“The afternoon tea sounded nice,” Merlin said, feeling oddly defensive of the manor. It was their new home, after all.

“Why, because they had those little sandwiches?” 

Merlin rumbled, tucking his face into his pillow, and Arthur splattered a spoonful of peanut butter between his shoulder blades. He proceeded to lick it off Merlin’s freckles, not stopping until the flat of his tongue traced nutty-scented lines along his back.

Merlin felt he should be a responsible adult and point out, “You’re wasting food.”

Arthur sat up straight again, feigning anger. “I am _not_! I’m the king. I can eat all I want. I need it to keep my strength up.” To prove it, he took another scoop.

“Already spoiled,” Merlin teased. “You’re not even king yet.”

Swallowing, Arthur said thickly, “No, but you won’t stop until I am.”

“Wrong. I won’t stop until you’re emperor.” Merlin didn’t even know whether he was truly joking, but his expression was set in an infallible way. He lifted himself up on his arms and crawled closer to Arthur.

Arthur seemed to forget all about the food. His eyes glazed over. “Emperor Pendragon. I like the sound of that.”

Merlin hummed in humour. “Emperor of the whole world.”

“How’d you like to be my first conquest?”

Their faces were close now, noses brushing. “I’ve never been shagged by an emperor before.”

Arthur flung the jar and spoon away. “Come here!”

Merlin wasn’t sure which round this was—maybe three. They were all starting to blend together, and he was already pleasantly numb. But his body still pulsed and arched and shivered under Arthur’s touch, responding to Arthur like a magnetic pull. 

Most of the time, Merlin was convinced destiny had gotten it wrong by choosing him. He only accepted its judgment when Arthur was wrapped around him, closer than his skin. Even if this had been some disastrous mix up, Merlin was certainly glad about it, and he wouldn’t give back a day. 

“You call that a show of strength, Emperor?” Merlin chided, or at least he tried to. It came out in hiccups. But Arthur had somehow understood him, and soon it was all Merlin could do to grab hold of _something_ —the sheets, twisting in his fist; Arthur’s back, his muscles sliding beneath Merlin’s fingers.

Merlin had almost forgotten that it was okay to be loud. Over the last few weeks, he’d gotten used to keeping his shouts in his throat. But now they had the whole house to themselves—big and expansive and full of rooms they didn’t know what to do with. And Merlin yelled. 

He shouted as he came, messy and desperate, between them, until Arthur finished quickly after. His throat was scratchy by the by time he was done, and for a few long moments all he could do was catch his breath. His heart beat throughout him. He could feel it in his neck, his palms, his thighs.

Arthur was still lying on top of him, their ankles hooked. He felt Arthur’s stomach inflate and deflate with every fast breath.

Merlin looked out the window. The sun had completely disappeared now, leaving only the autumn darkness.

_Functioning adult_ , he reminded himself. 

“We’re gonna be late.”

Arthur grunted and buried his nose into Merlin’s neck. “What if we didn’t go?”

Merlin hated the temptation, especially because he’d been thinking the same thing. “You’re the one who called the meeting! At least wait until you’re officially king to start shirking your responsibilities.” 

“I’m sure they can figure it out by themselves.” He reappeared only to peck butterfly kisses to Merlin’s lips. “That way, we can take the day off tomorrow.”

“I had fifteen hundred years worth of days off, remember?”

“No, would you like to tell me about it again? Please.”

Merlin rumbled, sending waves through Arthur, who beamed back.

“Come on, just one more day!”

“God, it’s a good thing we weren’t together in Camelot. You would have neglected the place until it ran into the ground.”

Arthur hummed in mock-consideration. “Maybe. It’s a miracle I resisted. Are you _sure_ you haven’t put me under some kind of spell?”

“Yup, with a very powerful love potion,” Merlin deadpanned.

“Oh, yeah?”

“Mm. Makes you want to sleep with me.”

“Well, I think, right now, it’s working a—bit—too—well,” Arthur told him between kisses.

“That’s my evil plan.”

_We’re going to be late. We’re going to be late. We’re going to be—._

“Once more?”

“Once more.”

They were late. It didn’t help that they got lost looking for the street Gwen’s flat was on. When they finally found it, the windshield was speckled with drizzling raindrops falling from a sky that threatened a downpour. They parked on the street right outside Gwen’s stoop. It was a few streets down from the ruins of the medieval castle, the one that had replaced Camelot’s citadel. Merlin could vaguely recall what the castle had looked like in its prime, but now it was just an old hall made of rocks and _do not touch_ signs that most people had blatantly ignored.

Merlin walked up the steps to the door, Arthur in tow, and was just about to knock when Arthur’s arms wrapped around his waist and tugged him back.

“If we stay quiet, we can still turn back,” Arthur conspired, as though he were about to go into enemy territory. Or perhaps not. Usually, Arthur charged in sword first into enemy territory.

Merlin breathed out a chuckle, which fogged around his lips. “Maybe they won’t notice if we don’t show up!” he played along. The rain was seeping through his hair and sliding down the back of his jacket. He turned around in Arthur’s arms, staying close.

“We can pretend I got held up by very important matters of the kingdom.”

“Like what?” 

“Like the thought of you today, making all those magical creatures turn and run.” Arthur leaned into him, and Merlin leaned back further. Arthur stepped forward to keep balanced, his leg fitting between Merlin’s. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner you were so powerful, Merlin? Afraid I’d tear your clothes off?”

“Oh, _Emperor_ ,” Merlin teased, and let Arthur kiss him. If only for a diversion. He massaged his fingers into Arthur’s neck with one hand and, with the other, knocked loudly on the door.

Arthur gasped into his mouth and jumped away from Merlin.

“ _Mer_ lin!" 

It was for his own good. He’d thank Merlin later.

“We’re here now. We might as well stay.”

“You’re going to pay for that!”

Merlin almost regretted not leaving, but it was too late now. The door was opening, and Merlin favoured Gwen with his biggest grin.

“Arthur, Merlin! Oh, is it raining? Come in.”

“Sorry we’re late,” Merlin told her after they walked into the tiny entrance hall. Merlin wasn’t shocked that Gwen had picked a placed like this. It was small, but homey. Gwen never needed a castle, only comfort. Unexpectedly, he suddenly remembered her home in the lower town of Camelot with some fondness. However, when considering it, this place was certainly a step up.

“Yes, we,” Arthur said, clearing his throat, “got lost.”

Whether Gwen believed the excuse or not, she did not say. “Well, dinner is almost ready. Gaius said he’d be a bit late. He’d wanted to have a look at the hospital. Here, have a seat.” She gestured into the next room, where everyone else was already gathered, before rushing back into what Merlin assumed was the kitchen.

The knights, all them seeming as though they were well into the bottle of wine on the coffee table, sounded off in greeting when Arthur and Merlin entered.

“’Bout time you showed up!” Gwaine said, ever direct. He scooted over on the sofa he shared with Elyan to make room. “What, Merlin? Trouble getting the princess out of bed?”

Merlin felt Arthur freeze for a second. He almost paused, too, to make sure Gwen hadn’t overheard.

“Very funny,” Arthur said, sitting down. Merlin followed his lead. “I trust all of you are settling in.”

Merlin found two empty glasses on the table and poured the rest of the wine into them. He handed one to Arthur.

“We are,” Elyan assured. “We’re not far from here. In our spare time, we’ve walked around the area to assess what needs to be done. What of your location? What’s it like there?”

Merlin swirled his glass, watching the legs of the wine climb up the sides. It was a trick he’d learned in Italy, but he still couldn’t figure out how it was supposed to help him judge the wine’s quality. But the woman had owned a vineyard, so Merlin took her word for it.

“Insatiable,” he said, taking a sip.

Arthur coughed his drink back into his glass, and Merlin tried very hard not to smirk with victory. He slipped up slightly when he looked at Lancelot, who was shaking his head infinitesimally at him in silent humour.

“He means it’s overgrown,” Arthur recovered, even though Merlin was certain everyone present had caught on by now; except perhaps Leon, who tended to take every double entendre at face value. 

“There’s work to be done on the lawn, but let’s not worry about that now. Making the city inhabitable should be our main priority. Once we’re ready, I’m going to extend our hospitality to the refugees who have lost their homes to the Neos. We can give them jobs rebuilding the city. Their families will need work, if they’re able,” Arthur went on.

“And some of the people who’d lived here before will want to return home again,” Lancelot pointed out.

“As long as their home isn’t my new place,” Gwaine joked.

Arthur ignored Gwaine. “Yes, but we must make sure we don’t let any of Morgana’s spies into the city. We should set up a watch.”

“I’ve had some thoughts about that,” Leon said. “I’ve seen a few places that would be suitable look out points until we’re able to construct a watchtower.”

Arthur gestured for him to go on.

It was clear this would go on for a long time. Once this group got into strategy making, there was no shutting them up. The sight of them made Merlin’s heart stop dead. He never thought he’d see them again, especially all together. But there they were, in Camelot, huddled in a circle, whispering strategies and plans, their shadows painting the walls opaque. 

At once, Merlin saw them adorned in polished silver chainmail, ornamented plated armour, and billows of deep red. It was a sight he’d seen many times, a memory that he hadn’t known to be branded into his subconscious until that very moment.

King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table. Then and now. Past and present. Once and future.

They looked like predators, fierce and unstoppable and beautiful—animals that had no business in a pack together. A rugged wolf and a strong bear, a gallant steed, a hawk with the highest vantage point, a stag with sharp antlers. And a dragon.

Such wild species must have learned their traits from these men.

Merlin wondered what that made him. He used to fit in somewhere, he thought—maybe.

_You’re more dragon than any of them_ , a voice whispered in his ear. _More dangerous._

Merlin didn’t feel like a predator. He’d never felt like a lion on the prowl or a vulture swooping low. Not until he had to—when the earth shook and the lightning struck and the wind howled.

He’d always liked owls, though he thought maybe that was Gaius. He’d always wished he could be more like Gaius, but he was more cunning than he ever was wise. 

No one ever thinks of a raven as a predator until they see the sharpness of its talons.

Merlin drained the rest of his wine and whispered to Arthur, “I’m going to see if Gwen needs any help.”

Arthur gave him a barely-there nod, and Merlin excused himself to the kitchen. He followed his nose until he found it, basking in the too-sweet roasting smell of what might have once been a chicken and potatoes before they were pumped with chemicals and GMOs. Gwen was flittering about the place, opening cabinets and drawers in search of something.

“Look at you, a one woman show,” Merlin complimented, not meaning to startle her. She clutched her heart, but looked at him tenderly. “Anything I can do without messing up your feng shui?”

“My _what_?” she laughed.

“Forget it. How I can I help?”

She turned back to the cabinets, looking a little frazzled. “It would be lovely if you set the table, but I still haven’t found where everything is. I can’t seem to find the utensils.”

Merlin nodded dutifully and got to work. “Leave that to me. You focus on cooking.”

“Oh!” Gwen gasped, and rushed to the oven. Merlin was proud of having taught her to use modern day appliances in London, especially if it meant he’d get a meal out of it.

“How are you settling in?” Merlin asked, trying to get his mind off the food. His mouth watered as she took the pieces of chicken out of the oven to sit. He continued to shuffle through the drawers. It felt odd, going through everything the people who’d once lived there deemed unnecessary to bring wherever they were headed. It was like an invasion of privacy.

Did they think they were ever returning? Were they still alive and able to return?

“I’m managing.” She sighed, and wiped the moisture off her brow. “It’s strange to be back.” 

“Strange good or strange bad?” 

She smiled thoughtfully. “Good. I’m proud of what this place has become. Or—I’m sure I would have been.”

“You will be,” Merlin promised her absentmindedly as the contents of the drawers rattled in his continued search. He’d told himself the same thing so many times, the words had lost their meaning. He shouldn’t have been so flippant with them when he spoke to another.

“What about you? And Dagnija? Is she happy here?” Gwen asked quickly, as though she didn’t know which question she wanted to ask. Truthfully, it sounded like it wasn’t any of them.

But Merlin wasn’t prepared for her real question, so he answered, “She’s happy. She’s mostly been following Archie around. I think she thinks he’s a dragon—or maybe she thinks she’s a cat. But he’s warming up to her. She mostly just sleeps, which is probably normal. Or maybe she _does_ think she’s a cat . . .”

Despite Gwen’s laughter, Merlin felt very cold. He was completely out of his depth as he realised he _didn’t_ know what was normal in a dragon’s development. Aithusa’s hadn’t exactly been usual, not that he knew anything of her early life.

Were they supposed to sleep a lot as newborns? When would Dagnija acquire speech? Would Merlin have to teach her, or would she just _know_ full English one day? What about food? He’d looked at a few of his books, which all said Ethiopian dragons ate elephants, which were in short supply in Britain. She seemed to be fine with canned tuna for now, but how long until she rejected it?

He didn’t want to bother Kilgharrah with these questions unless it was important. Kilgharrah would probably only scold him for not knowing, anyway. And calling him for help felt like admitting defeat.

Balinor may have been able to help with some of Merlin’s questions, but he couldn’t train or care for the dragon himself. All the practical rearing was up to Merlin, in the end. Dagnija was _his_ responsibility.

“Honestly, I have no idea what I’m doing,” he admitted, feeling as though he could be truthful with Gwen.

“You will, Merlin. Trust your instincts.” He wasn’t sure if she meant _paternal_ or _dragonlord_ instincts, but she’d spoken with enough faith in him that he didn’t ask. “And, if you should ever need a break, I am here to do what I can.”

Merlin snorted as he pictured leaving Gwen, or anyone else, to care for an untamed dragon. He imagined a lot of things would catch fire.

“Thanks, but I’m not sure I’ll need a childminder any time soon. Arthur and I aren’t really the romantic night out type.” It came out like word vomit, and he regretted it as soon as he said it.

However, Gwen took it gracefully, not making it awkward. “Yes, with Arthur, I wish you luck with that.”

Merlin really hoped her laugh was genuine. He didn’t want to keep things from her. He’d always felt comfortable talking to Gwen, something he’d been robbed of in the previous weeks. He longed to be open with her again, but this was uncharted territory. Gwen had never been the type to hold grudges, but he got the paranoid sense that she hated him.

“Gwen, I don’t want for you and I—,” he began sheepishly.

“Merlin, there is nothing to say,” she interrupted, sounding genuine instead of curt. “I understand neither you nor Arthur would do anything to hurt me.”

But it felt like they had.

“You’ve always cared for him, even if you did not realise it. I am happy for you, Merlin. Honestly,” she continued, though she did not say if she was happy for herself, too. Merlin would give up his own happiness if it meant ensuring hers—and Arthur’s, if that’s what he really wanted. “You deserve some peace, especially after all you’ve been through.”

Merlin paused as he suddenly became once again aware of his long life. All that waiting. It hit him hard in the chest. He was at once a very long way away. 

“Right . . . I’d almost forgotten.”

It was easy to forget, now that they were back where it had all started. Arthur and the knights were in the next room talking strategy. Gaius was taking inventory of the medicine at his disposal. Gwen and Merlin were in the kitchen, preparing dinner and making sure everything was in order.

It was easy to slip back into the way things were. Old patterns, and all that came along with it. Merlin wondered what that meant for him and Arthur. Perhaps he _would_ have to give up his happiness.

Maybe he should have stayed in bed with Arthur, after all.

It took Merlin a few moments to realise he was rummaging through the utensils drawer. He forced the melancholy thoughts away and said, “Found them.” He held up a fork to show Gwen.

She gave a breath of utter relief. “You saved the day!”

“Me? Never! Ask anyone.”

He picked up a handful of utensils, but Gwen stopped him before he could so much as step towards the dining room.

“Wait, Merlin. May I ask you something?”

Merlin’s stomach dropped. He didn’t know why he was suddenly so nervous, but the way Gwen was biting her lip in trepidation, wondering whether or not she should ask her question, wasn’t helping in the slightest.

But he waited patiently for her to continue, not knowing what else to do.

“You and Arthur. When you’re . . . _together_ —.”

He was over a thousand years old, and he was certain he wasn’t mature enough for wherever this conversation was going.

Gwen shook her head, her cheeks flushing a little awkwardly, but she held her ground. “Does he ever do this strange thing with—?”

Merlin’s eyes lit up, and his laughter was painted with both shock and relief. “Oh my god! I know exactly what you’re talking about!”

“You _do_?” She was chuckling, too, now, all the awkwardness gone.

“Yes! I’m so happy you think it’s weird, too!”

Her eyes were wide in something between horror and glee. “No, I feel the same!”

Footsteps were approaching.

“Oh, shh!” Gwen hissed.

They both fought to control themselves and focus on the task at hand. Merlin swallowed his mirth, but he could still feel it lingering like a lump in his throat. He couldn’t look at Gwen. If he did, he’s start laughing again.

“Ah, here you are. When will—?” Arthur said, entering the kitchen.

Merlin couldn’t help himself. He snorted, and broke into an uncontrollable fit. Gwen must have been barely holding it together, too, because the laughter was infectious.

Arthur froze, at a complete loss. “What’s so funny?”

Neither of them could stop long enough to draw in breath, let alone speak. Merlin’s lungs began to strain as his body shook.

“What?” Arthur demanded, somewhere between anger and insecurity.

Merlin hadn’t laughed like that in lifetimes.

 

///

 

Merlin always thought it was easy to tell the past from the future. The lines had always been so clear-cut. But really, the distinction was impossible—especially when it flashed before his eyes too quickly for him to process the information. An image, a sound, a word; they were all forgotten the moment they passed. Everything bled together, the past and future meeting in the middle to become the present.

Gwen with a gold and jewelled crown atop her head. The long, dark tombs of a catacomb. Cenred raising his sword before his army. Morgause with blood staining her hands. A round table in a great stone hall. Arthur and an opponent in single combat on a pitch. Morgana wailing as the walls crumbled around her. 

Merlin was certain he’d seen all these images before. They were memories, even the ones that hadn’t happened yet. Time looped around him.

An intense heat was singeing his cheeks. Something was in a blaze, something big. He couldn’t tell what it was, though it must have been a building. All it was now was flames, rubble beyond repair. The fire tinted the dark, nighttime clouds above in orange; it hissed and crackled upwards. Hundreds of people rushed about, but Merlin couldn’t see any of their faces, just their silhouettes as they escaped or ran towards the inferno.

There were cries and shouts and howls, all coming together to produce a cacophony.

Merlin couldn’t tell where he was or when he was. 

The heat was suddenly ripped away. The roaring changed to the hissing of rain on the roof. The sound carried Merlin backwards through the flashing visions, back into consciousness.

He blinked until his eyes adjusted to the dark bedroom. At first, he didn’t know where he was. The room was unfamiliar, and nothing like his flat in London. Then, he remembered, and his building panic toppled over its own weight.

Outside, it was pouring. Fat raindrops raced down the windows, their shadows painting patterns on the walls and floor. Next to him, Arthur breathed in sleep. Everything else was silent.

Merlin sat up and peered around the room, but he wasn’t sure what he was looking for. The vision had been disorienting, and he wasn’t certain what to do with it. What had been burning? Had it been a warning? Or had it been something to strive for? 

The pit in his stomach was uncertainty, not fear. The vision had felt urgent.

Was the fire happening now?

He got out of bed and paced towards the window, making sure not to trip on Archie and Dagnija curled up together on the carpet. The night outside was quiet, the tree line dark and the city in the distance unmoving. A soft haze floated above it all, and the rain coming down currently made the far-off view shift with diagonal lines of static. There weren’t any fires.

Merlin opened the window, letting the hiss of the rain flood his senses. Wet wind whipped inside, sending in the tight and pressured air that made Merlin shiver. He sniffed, testing for the strong scent of burning. All that reached him was sweet earth and frigidness.

“What are you doing?” Arthur grumbled groggily.

It startled Merlin momentarily. He looked over his shoulder to find Arthur lifting his head from the pillow.

“I—um—,” Merlin stammered, his gaze ricocheting from Arthur to the window and back again. He wasn’t exactly sure how to answer the question.

Apparently, Arthur didn’t find it important, anyway. He readjusted his position and buried his face back into comfort. “’s cold,” he murmured, sounding already three-quarters of the way to sleep again.

“Oh, sorry!” Merlin realised. He scrambled to close the window. 

“Come back to bed.”

Merlin envied Arthur’s ability to sleep. He was wide-awake, but the rest of the world was dormant. He had to believe it would stay that way, and the fire would take place in the future. He had time to figure out what was burning. 

He slipped back under the covers and rolled onto his side to face the window. The rain continued to streak down the glass. His fingers and toes were numb with a chill, slowly being warmed by the blankets. He didn’t know it was supposed to be so cold that night. He should have started a fire in the hearth before they went to bed—or maybe that would have been a bad idea.

“Ambrosius, come in! You there? Over.”

Crackling white noise and a blaring wooing sound drowned out Wallace’s voice over the walkie-talkie. Immediately, Arthur was just as awake as Merlin. He all but dove for the walkie on the nightstand.

“What is it?” he asked into it, not a hint of sleep in his tone. 

“Was that a siren?” Merlin thought aloud, though Wallace didn’t hear it. He was already talking. 

“There was a Neo attack on London tonight. Happened a few hours ago. Over.”

Merlin’s stomach flipped as he met Arthur’s gaze, full of sternly controlled fear. 

“What’s she done?” Arthur breathed into the walkie.

Before Wallace spoke, Merlin knew the answer. “They burned down Buckingham. There’s nothing left. Over.”

Merlin closed his eyes slowly and swallowed. In the darkness, orange hues blazed. He could picture it, Wallace standing outside the fence, rubble and smoke behind him. Fire engines, police cars, and ambulance would be scattered all around. Every precinct in the city would be there.

It was the same when Parliament had been destroyed during the riots. It had been nothing but an empty building for years. But, for many, it had been a symbol of something that once was, something that was no more, something that had to die. And, just like that, it was nothing but ash. 

“Shit,” Arthur swore under his breath, dropping the walkie to his lap for a single moment before controlling himself and bringing it back to his lips. “Was anyone inside?”

“A few members of staff. We got most of them out. Over.”

_Most of them_.

“How many?” Arthur wasn’t asking how many had been saved.

Wallace understood the question. “Four.”

Arthur ground his teeth, but managed to fight down his anger. “That’s where the meeting was supposed to be, Wallace.”

“Yeah,” Wallace said, sounding exhausted. He hadn’t said _over_. There was more to say. Merlin held his breath. “I think that was the point. Over.”

Arthur let is hands fall to his lap again, and Merlin could see the cogs turning in his mind. He was too angry to think of a feasible plan. His fingers itched for his sword, his toes moved to charge into battle. 

“Why would she attack the palace now?” Arthur demanded, though he didn’t push down the button on the comm. The question was meant only for Merlin. “Why not do it during the meeting, with the leaders gathered together, if she really wants to weaken the provinces?”

There could be any number of reasons, but none of them range true. Merlin knew the answer.

“She already thinks the provinces are weak,” he said. “She doesn’t need to kill the heads of state. She didn’t care about preventing the meeting. She was trying to prove a point. To us.”

Arthur clamped his jaw. “What point?”

“She’s stronger than all of Britain put together.” 

It was arrogance. It would be her downfall, just as it was last time. 

The walkie crackled into life again. “You still there? Over.”

Arthur seemed to have made up his mind. He told Merlin with determination, “Let’s prove her wrong.”

He held up the walkie again. His knuckles were turning white around it. “Tell your uncle the meeting will be held here—in Winchester. Tell him not only to invite Simmons and Darby. Brown and Owen should come, too.” 

Merlin didn’t know how to react. He was torn between elation and panic that the city would not be ready for such guests. But Arthur was taking charge. Before his eyes, in the rain-streaked shadows of the bedroom, Arthur was becoming king again. Hair ruffled with sleep, lines on his cheeks from the pillow, eyes hard with resolve—he was a king once more.

“All the province leaders,” Arthur finished. “If we’re to go to war, let’s begin it.”

There was a pause before Wallace answered. “Will the city be ready in time?”

Arthur’s expression flashed like the reality of their situation finally caught up with him, but it did not deter him. “Give us a week’s time,” he decided, looking at Merlin as he said it. “We’ll be ready.”

“I’ll do what I can,” said Wallace, a fire lit in his tone. “Over and out.”

Before Arthur placed the walkie back on the nightstand, Merlin was already asking, “How are we supposed to rebuild a city in a week, Arthur?”

“You have magic, don’t you?” Arthur snipped like it was obvious. 

Merlin huffed. Even with magic, it would take a lot longer to fix Winchester than seven days. There was wiring and plumbing to repair, crumbled walls and condemned buildings to rebuild, nature to tame, magical creatures to herd into the forest with the others. It was too much.

“I’m not asking you to rebuild the entire city,” Arthur said after an exasperated sigh. “Just parts of it.”

“What _parts_?" 

“The parts that matter! The Great Hall, Guildhall—their surrounding areas! No one will take us seriously if they show up and the government buildings are in ruins!” 

He had a point. More than that, Merlin didn’t have a choice. Everything was already in motion, and Merlin would find a way to follow Arthur’s orders.

He readied himself and got out of bed. He started for the bathroom. It would be a long night, a long _few_ nights, and he couldn’t very well restore Winchester into glory (or at least make it decent) in his pyjamas.

“What are you doing?” Arthur called after him, frustrated in not getting a verbal response.

Merlin half-turned as he continued to walk. “Doing what I’ve always done: I’m cleaning up after you.”


	2. Chapter 2

There hadn’t been much sleep for anyone that week. Whether it meant taking watch all hours of the night or rushing to make ready the city, everyone did their part. Gwen used up most of those days where their visitors would be spending their time, in the Great Hall and Guildhall, the building with the clock tower they’d seen upon their arrival in Winchester. It took the majority of one day just to scrub the floors of the Great Hall alone—but, to her shock, she wasn’t alone.

She didn’t think Arthur even knew what a mop was, or how to use it. When he joined her on the first day, sleeves rolled up and ready to work, Gwen gaped for a full minute. Arthur pretended he didn’t notice her surprise, as though cleaning were something he’d done his entire life. All throughout that day, she watched him out of the corner of her eye, unable to believe it was really him.

On the second day, when he showed up again just as sore as she was, she asked, “Are you sure you’re up for this? There’s still much to do.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” he’d said, averting his eyes.

It made her laugh. “You’ve never done it before, Arthur. You were a king.” 

“ _You_ were a queen.”

“I was a servant first.”

“Well, if you don’t want me here—.”

“No! It’s not that. It’s just . . . you surprised me.”

“I’m very surprising.”

He truly was. He always had been. But perhaps the most surprising thing about Arthur was how Gwen felt about him. It was remarkably the same as she always had. She realised it during that very conversation, in the way his brows quirked in anger and hurt when he thought she hadn’t wanted him there; and then in the way his face relaxed, pleased when he knew he’d taken her by surprise.

Arthur always had such grand expressions. He wore every emotion on his face, in the curves of his lips, the twinkle of his eyes, the furrow of his forehead, and the strength in his jaw. He wore his happiness, his pain, his focus, his intent, his honour, and the whole wide range harboured inside of him. His face crumpled or lit up in ways that were always so clear to interpret, and Gwen found him as easy to read as a book. He may have rarely said what he was feeling, but he showed it.

And she loved that about him. She loved _him_ , and always would. But found she no longer held romantic feelings for him. 

That is to say, her love for him had never felt like a wildfire, bright and all consuming. It was a soft thing that enveloped her in warmth and happiness. It had always been a wonderful feeling, to love someone in a way that didn’t make your chest ache with pain or stomach flutter with nerves. And it was a strange feeling, to still love someone you were no longer _in_ love with.

Besides, there was no denying that a piece of her longed to ache and flutter. The memory of such a love lingered in her heart and her stomach, and her mind, even after it was thought to be over.

In the weeks after her return to life, she had tried to tell herself she still felt romance for Arthur. She knew now she didn’t, and hadn’t for many years. In fact, in the waning years of her former life, when she thought of him, she wished he were still with her—but not for herself. She’d mourned for him and let him go long ago. Instead, she wished he were alive for Camelot, for the kingdom that she loved, the kingdom he’d been in love with. And for Merlin.

Merlin had lost himself within Arthur, where Gwen had found herself.

At Arthur’s side, she became the person she was meant to be. It was one of the many reasons she would, in fact, love him forever. But she had always been a whole person on her own. She was able to move on from Arthur, to stand on her own two feet. Merlin wasn’t.

She knew now that Arthur wasn’t, either.

The days went on, finally leading to the day of the meeting. One by one, the leaders of the provinces arrived into the Great Hall, bringing their advisors and officers with them. Arthur’s knights were present, too, and Wallace had come with his uncle. Soon, the hall was flooded with ambient noise. The dignitaries shook hands and spoke in whispers, and Gwen thought she knew what they were talking about.

Arthur. 

They were trying to size him up before they even laid eye on him.

Gwen _was_ looking at him, and he was fidgeting. They stood in the anteroom outside the hall, doors closed but for a crack. She could tell he was trying to peek through without her knowing. She knew it because she was doing the same thing.

“What’s taking them so long?” Arthur huffed, pulling on his collar. It was a strange thing to see him at a meeting of state not donning his chainmail. By contemporary standards, he wasn’t underdressed in the least, but it didn’t sit right with Gwen. She imagined it was much worse for him.

“Relax, Arthur. They’ve been gone five minutes.”

Merlin and Gaius had been sent into the Great Hall to get the feel for the people in the room, as they sometimes did for new visitors to Camelot. Gwen already knew it would be difficult to convince these people to work with them, but she hoped it wouldn’t be impossible.

“They’re taking forever.”

“Then, perhaps, you should have sent me,” she told him. She didn’t know why he’d sent Merlin. “You and Merlin should have entered together. He’s your husband, after all.”

Arthur’s jaw tightened, and his gaze dropped to the floor. She’d made him nervous, and wished she hadn’t. He’d been trying to be comfortable around her in the last days. It was probably the reason he’d helped her prepare the hall, because he was forcing himself not to avoid her. However, she often caught him glancing at her guiltily.

She wished he would say what was on his mind.

He sighed heavily, as though unable to hold it in anymore. “Guinevere, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.” 

_Finally_.

He made himself meet her eyes. “If we’re to succeed today, I need you by my side. I don’t want there to be any animosity between us.”

Again, that feeling of soft fondness bloomed in her chest. She found herself smiling gently at him. There was no animosity. She could never feel that for him. “Arthur, you don’t need to be sorry. I understand. I don’t appreciate you keeping such things from me, but I _do_ understand why you did.”

He didn’t look like he believed her. He crossed his arms and stared down at them. She placed her hand on his forearm.

“Arthur,” she said, fishing for his eyes. She needed him to believe her. They needed to move past this. Since she learned of his marriage to Merlin, she had done a lot of thinking—and she realised some part of her had seen it coming. Arthur had always been surprising, yes, but never about his heart.

“I’m happy for you.” She had said the same to Merlin, and she meant it. She didn’t want either of them to pity her, or feel they wronged her in some disastrous way that would ruin her relationships with them. She cared for them too much to lose them. She wanted to free Arthur of his remorse, and of her. He’d feel lighter without their past hanging over his head, as she did.

“And I know you’re happy with him. You always have been. It’s in the way you look at him.”

He pulled his brows together, not understanding. “How do I look at him?”

All his grand expressions, and he had no idea he had one reserved just for Merlin. How could she describe it to him? Large eyes, steady but always searching for something just beneath the skin. No. It was so much more than the description of facial quirks. 

“Like he’s magic.”

It was an apt analogy.

Arthur, however, scoffed like it was ridiculous. “He _is_ magic, Guinevere.”

“Yes. But you didn’t always know that.”

He froze, and appeared as though something had just dawned on him. Perhaps he’d finally found what he’d been searching for on Merlin’s face for all these years. Gwen was glad she could facilitate that.

Then, the doors opened, and Gaius and Merlin filed through. They closed it behind them to talk privately. Gwen straightened out and cleared her throat. Arthur did the same. When she gave her attention to the newcomers, Merlin’s gaze flashed between the two of them in a peculiar way. 

She didn’t know what it meant. In contrast to his husband, Merlin wore nothing on his face, and had never been easy to read. However, she couldn’t figure it out before Gaius began to speak.

“They’re ready for you, sire. It appears Chancellor Brown of the Exeter Republic will not be joining us today.”

Arthur turned green. “Why not? We need every province on board if we’re to defeat Morgana.”

“Now, Arthur,” Gwen said levelly, “we cannot expect everyone to flock to us right away. You know the path to unity is a long one.”

Gaius said, “She is right. If you impress those here today, perhaps the Chancellor will be more willing to join our cause.”

“And if I don’t impress them?” Arthur glanced at the closed door and shuffled a little. “What are they saying out there?”

Merlin and Gaius shared a quick look before Merlin said, “They’re wondering who you are. Everyone came because they wanted to see the man who tamed the beasts of Winchester.”

“That was _you_ ,” Arthur snipped, sweating. He pulled at his collar again.

“Arthur, they’re here to see you. Use what you can to convince them." 

Arthur ground his teeth. “They’re not here to see me. They’re expecting a legend.” 

Gwen understood his frustration. The people in the Great Hall had not been told that Arthur was the king returned, but they would find out soon enough. Gwen could not anticipate how that would end, but already rumour had spread through the provinces about what they’d achieved in Winchester.

People hadn’t come to see a man. They were expecting a saviour.

Gwen believed Arthur was that person, but he did not believe it for himself.

“And they’ll get one,” Merlin told him softly. He had a special look for Arthur, too.

Arthur only dropped his shoulders in a sigh and looked at the floor. Gwen wanted to shake him. Now was not the time to feel inadequate. He had a job to do, one she’d seen him do many times. 

“You convinced Commissioner Wallace to join us,” she told him. “And I’ve seen you make treaties with kings I never thought would befriend us. For god’s sake, Arthur, if you can make peace with King Odin, these rulers should be easy.”

Arthur snorted in a laugh, and looked slightly less uneasy. “What if they don’t want to unify, Guinevere? Brown’s not here. Lord Protector Owen isn’t even English! Maybe he’ll want to keep it that way.”

Merlin shrugged a little lightheartedly. “Well, _I’m_ on your side. Technically, I’m Welsh.”

Arthur shot him a look. “ _Technically_ won’t work, _Mer_ lin.”

“Sire,” Gaius cut in, “if you really are so worried, perhaps we should bring Dagnija here. The sight of a dragon may show them your strength.”

Arthur was shaking his head as soon as he heard the dragon’s name, but not in a fearful way. He was being protective. The real reason he didn’t want Dagnija there was because he was afraid the others would try to kill her out of fear. But the reason he gave was, “No. I’ve told you before, there’s no telling how they’ll react to her. Besides, we don’t want them to think we’re attempting to intimidate them into joining us. Dag stays at home.”

Gwen’s gaze swept to Merlin, to find him looking back. She gave him a small nod, blind to Arthur’s eyes, before turning away again. Merlin did not react outwardly, but he didn’t need to for her to know he recalled a conversation the two of them shared in secret the previous day.

“Then, we must stand on our own feet. It’s best we don’t keep them waiting,” Gwen said, placing her hand on Arthur’s arm to steady him. His eyes tore to her in a barely contained panic, but then he settled and nodded.

“Let’s get this over with,” he decided.

The doors were pulled back, and they stepped through together into the hall, and Gwen got her first good look at the group before her.

Days ago, Wallace has given them a full report of all of them.

Already seated at the long wooden table was Commissioner Basil Wallace, the stench of his cigarettes accompanying him. Huddled in a group behind him were men and woman in the formal uniform of the London Metropolitan Police. The Commissioner and his nephew were dressed the in same official garb. Although the London Province may have been the most populated region of Britain, the Commissioner did not bring as many officers with him as the other leaders did. Gwen took that as a good sign. It meant the Commissioner was not harbouring any doubts about aligning with them.

Next, there was President Joseph Darby of the Midland State. He was a towering man, with limbs as long and dark as tree branches, whose body still held some of its waning muscle from his youth. During the War, he had led a special military operation in a far off country Walled called Afghanistan. He had been there during an enemy attack, and managed to get not only his team out, but rescued a third of the civilian population in the town. He’d won medals, apparently, for his service, but it came at great expense to himself. As Gwen assessed him, her eyes flashed to the wooden cane on which he leaned to support his metal leg. A brown service dog sat obediently at his side.

Standing before half a dozen advisors, all of them eagerly listening to her whispered words, was Alicia Simmons, Prime Minister of Anglia. A flash of orange and grey-streaked hair sat atop her head in a tightly wound bun. Her peach blouse was the same colour as her skin, and her tan slacks matched the thick layers of freckles covering her face. Simmons hadn’t been in the military, but she had fought a war of her own. She had led peaceful protests against Parliament, calling for an end to the UK’s involvement in the War. Apparently, she’d been persuasive, or she would have been had the bomb not dropped on British soil. In the Winter that followed, she’d taken charge by leading her people into mining shafts and putting them to work digging for fresh water beneath the earth. To this day, Anglia’s water supply was independent of the Neos.

Closest to the entrance of the Great Hall stood another decorated veteran, Lord Protector of Wales, Thomas Owen. His thick white hair was cut close to his livered scalp; but, despite the deep wrinkles on his skin, his stout but stiff posture held no sign of his age. He’d been stationed in Europe in the War, conducting search and rescue and reconnaissance missions. It was said he had been in charge of hiding the surviving members of the former royal family, but Wallace was certain it was merely rumour. 

As she and Arthur entered the Hall, all the chatter of the advisors and officers fell silent. The leaders’ attention fell on them.

Gwen instinctually lifted her chin to become an unwavering stone cliff in their presence. It was a habit she’d picked up early in her reign, when the nobles and visiting kings would not take her seriously as sovereign. She had to appear infallible before them, and she supposed a small part of her expected the same attitude from the province heads. After all, even Commissioner Wallace had belittled her during their first meeting, though she knew he meant no real harm by it.

She was glad to see PM Simmons among them. It gave her a boost of confidence that perhaps times had changed.

Next to her, Arthur took on the same posture he always carried himself with in Camelot’s court, despite his inner turmoil. If Gwen looked at him quickly, she might have imagined a scarlet cloak hanging about his shoulders, and a glinting sword shining on his belt. 

“Friends, I welcome you all to Winchester,” Arthur told the many silent faces, and only Gwen heard the slightest pause before he named the city. She had heard him profess the greeting many times, and it chilled her skin to not hear it end in _Camelot_. It was something they would both have to get used to.

Arthur continued in a voice that bounced off the stones, “You’ve each travelled far to be here today, and for a purpose. Let’s sit so we can move forward.”

For a small moment, no one did anything. Each of the strangers watched Arthur with scepticism, waiting for the others to move first. It was Simmons that broke the spell by moving towards the table. Gwen let out the breath she’d been holding in. She gave Arthur relieved eyes, which he returned.

So far, so good. 

Each of the heads of state sat, and a few of their highest-ranking officers followed in suit. Gwen took her place between Arthur and Gaius, and Arthur’s right hand was left for Merlin. However, it seemed everyone but Merlin had expected that. He hovered in the background near the line of knights. She watched Arthur look over his shoulder and give Merlin a stern look, accompanied by an infinitesimal nod to the seat. Merlin’s eyes went wide, and he stayed firmly where he was. Arthur’s frustration grew as he bared his teeth. Merlin thinned his lips in response.

Gwaine, standing the closest to Merlin, shoved him with his elbow and silently encouraged him to sit. Merlin stumbled a little in the unexpected contact before shaking his head at Gwaine. Gwen gave all three of them a withering look. Merlin should have taken his place next to Arthur, but there was no point in arguing it now. He would sit when he was ready, if that day ever came.

Gwen wondered if it would. 

“Arthur?” the Commissioner said, drawing both Arthur and Gwen’s attention immediately. A military general from the Midlands snatched the empty chair next to Arthur.

Arthur shot one last quick glare at Merlin, but he recovered and said, “Of course. Commissioner, please begin.” 

The shuffling of papers and chairs ceased and the Commissioner leaned forward to address the room. “Surely, you’re all wondering why Winchester has been chosen as our meeting place, in light of the tragedy at Buckingham Palace. As you have seen for yourself, this city has once more become inhabitable, thanks to the efforts of Arthur here,” he gestured to Arthur as all eyes followed, and he hastened to add with a smile at Gwen, “—and, of course, his companions.”

Gwen nodded her head in appreciation.

“They have kindly allowed us to gather here, far from the Neo-Druids and their new so-called queen,” the Commissioner went on. With the preamble over, his face darkened considerably. “With their terror growing stronger than ever before, it is clear we can no longer submit to them.” 

“Say it for what it is,” Darby said. “It is time we stopped merely defending ourselves and took the fight to them.”

Close by to him, Simmons said, “Is that what we are, then? Some kind of war committee?” 

“That’s what she’s made us,” Darby answered. “She brought the war to us. Right now, my troops are engaged with hers as she makes for Birmingham. She’s beaten the Dumfries and Galloway Scots nearly to the Wastelands. She’s already taken Anglia, driven your people out of their homes—or worse, kept them there—.” 

“You don’t have to tell me what’s happened to Anglia,” Simmons interjected. “But we’re farmers, herders—not soldiers. I don’t care what land the Neos have, even if it is Anglican. My priority is getting my people to safety. I can’t risk any more civilian lives—.”

Commissioner Wallace cut in, “Do you expect her to negotiate with us?” 

“Of course, I don’t!”

“Because these aren’t just terror attacks on High Street anymore. Their queen is much more brazen than Nigel Cyrus ever was.”

“Still, I tend to agree with the Prime Minister,” said Owen. “If you wish to send your forces into war, far be it from me to stop you, but Wales doesn’t need to follow.”

Darby ran his hand across his bald head. “Then, what point is there to the alliances we have?”

“Excuse me, Mr. President. My job is _protect_ the Commonwealth, not send them into losing battle for other provinces.”

The Commissioner answered, “And why not? The Neos could have easily turned their forces on Wales instead of the Midlands.”

Finally, Arthur cut in, “No, they wouldn’t have. Morgana got enough numbers in Anglia to take on the Midland army. It’s the strongest in the provinces. She wants to snuff it out before giving them time to build their defences against her. Once she’s done there, and Britain is left without a strong military force, she’ll move on.”

“Then, what do you propose?” Simmons posed.

Arthur sat up a little straighter. “We combine the forces of the five provinces. We build an army to combat hers, and we take them on together.”

“That’s easy for you to say when you have no army of your own, or civilians to recruit,” Simmons pointed out. Arthur bit down on whatever he was feeling.

“And I’ve gotten reports from the battles with the Neo-Druids,” said Darby. “A large portion of their soldiers can’t be killed. They fall and get right back up again. We’ve never seen magic like that before.”

Owen agreed, “And you’re forgetting, wars cost money. Who is going to pay for this? It will be more than any of the provinces can afford to give. Darby’s funds are fine for the troops he has, but the Midlands could not possibly stretch those resources to support such numbers.”

Gwen felt the need to point out, “ _You_ forget that wars also generate money. We will need workers to forge weapons, make armour and supplies, grow food for provisions—.”

“And where will the initial money come from?” Owen interrupted. “The only one rich enough to support this is Chancellor Brown, and I don’t see him here.”

Simmons nearly laughed. “He wouldn’t join with us, anyway. All he does is sit behind his gates.”

“Then put me behind those gates,” Arthur demanded. “I’ll speak with him myself.”

“And say what? He won’t reason with any of us. What makes you think he’ll speak with . . .” She shook her head and furrowed her brows. “I’m sorry, _who_ exactly are you?”

Gwen’s heartbeat quickened, thinking it was finally time for the truth to come out. However, it was a false alarm. Before Arthur could speak, Darby said, “I’m more interested in finding out about the Druid queen. Who even is this woman? My people can’t get any intel on her. She appears to have come out of nowhere. All we really know about her is that she’s going by the name Morgana Pendragon.”

Simmons said, “An alias, no doubt.”

Gwen caught Arthur’s eyes. They both knew this was their opportunity to dominate the conversation.

Again, Arthur straightened his posture into something rigid. “I assure you, Prime Minister, it’s no alias. Commissioner Wallace is right. Morgana isn’t just a threat. She isn’t content to simply cast a shadow over the provinces. She wants to rule them. She’s a strong leader, and more powerful than you can imagine. The magic she commands is as old as the world itself. More and more people will rally behind her.” 

“And those who do not, she will coerce into helping her,” Gwen added. “She wants your lands, yes, but she’s more interested in your people—those who practice magic in particular. If we do not hold her back, she will not stop until every magician in Britain is pledged to her cause.”

The Commissioner took the silence that followed to recapture the room’s attention. He cleared his throat and said, “Arthur can provide us with intelligence on Morgana, and the weapon she has at her disposal.” 

Even as the Commissioner spoke, there wasn’t a pair of eyes in the room that did not linger on Arthur. On the peripherals of it, Gwen could feel her flesh crawl under their curiosity and prayer. Each of them were desperate and scared, but was it enough for them to accept what was impossibly set before them? 

“I’ve heard of this weapon,” Simmons said. “It was used on Gloucester. It killed thousands of civilians and Midland soldiers. What is it?” 

“It’s made of pure magic,” Arthur said, seeming to solely address her despite the captivation of the rest of the room. “It isn’t of her design. We think Cyrus had attempted to use it before in his terror attacks. But Morgana’s magic perfected it. The weapon targets only those who don’t practice magic.” 

“She’s working towards a genocide,” Darby interpreted, his brows knitting together solemnly. 

“How do you know this?” Owen asked in the same moment. 

Before Arthur could answer, the Commissioner explained, “He was at Maudsley Hospital when the Neos attacked it, on the night of Morgana’s rise to power. That was the first time she detonated the weapon.”

“And yet you’re still alive,” Owen said, his eyes narrowing at Arthur. Clearly, he was jumping to conclusions. “Are _you_ a magician?”

Gwen saw Arthur’s jaw tense. He stared Owen down for a moment before answering, “I have no magic myself. I’m only alive because Morgana let me escape. It’s why she chose the hospital as her target—because I was there. She didn’t want to kill me. She wanted me to witness her victory.”

Simmons had slowly turned her eyes to the painting of the Round Table hanging from the far wall. She appeared to be taking in every detail with rapt fascination. Then, her gaze swept across the knights and Gwen before finally landing on Arthur.

“Why you?” Darby questioned.

“Because she believes Arthur is the only one who stands in her way,” Gwen answered bluntly, because Arthur would never admit to such a thing. “Because he’s defeated her before.” 

“Because she’s my sister,” Arthur said, his eyes falling to the table only briefly before meeting the various faces of disbelief and mistrust. 

At once, everyone began speaking over each other. The advisors leaned into their leaders, who ignored them to raise their voices to be heard over one another.

Owen was shouting, “And you say you have no magic? You must! Is that how you got rid of all the godforsaken creatures in this city?” 

Simmons yelled, “Is this some kind of joke to you? People are dying because of this woman, and you come along saying things like this?”

Darby boomed, “I have a war to win, son. I’ve already been away from my troops long enough as it is without this distraction.” 

“How do we know you’re not working with her yourself?” 

“Why exactly where you in the hospital that night? Were you a patient there?”

“As I stand here, the Neos are engaging my army. I can’t listen to this any longer.”

“I understand your hesitation, but—,” Arthur tried, only to be cut off time and time again.

Gwen found herself having a similar struggle for dominance. She never opened her mouth to speak, but rather decided to wait out the firestorm until it extinguished itself, allowing them the chance to explain. However, her anxiety slowly swelled as she convinced herself the onslaught wouldn’t end any time soon. 

The Commissioner held up his palm in a placating gesture and tried, “I know this all seems a bit outrageous—.” 

“Outrageous?” Darby repeated incredulously, as Simmons’ voice overlapped him with, “A bit? Do you have _any_ idea what he’s claiming? Who is he?”

“Why have you brought us here, Commissioner Wallace?” Owen demanded.

Darby’s chair wailed against the stones as he stood up. “I won’t stay here any longer.”

The others stood up, too. Arthur jumped to his feet.

Gwen did, too. She whipped around to Merlin, who was watching the proceedings as though Arthur were in a lions’ den. He followed every movement.

It was time for them to enact their plan, their failsafe. Gwen prayed it would work.

“Merlin!”

Merlin said only one word. His voice was a rasp, a whisper; and yet, it rose above any other in the room. _Dagnija_.

He rushed to the door and tore in open just in time for the dragon to soar through.

Dagnija was a streak of red through the air. She made directly for Arthur, whose arm lifted to catch her with the speed and instinct Gwen could attribute only to a warrior of his skill. She landed on his forearm like a dove to an olive branch. Her two sets of wings still flapped as she settled, and ribbons of black smoke were furling upward out of her nostrils and the sides of her mouth. She stood on her back legs and wrapped her long tail around his arm for support.

The chaos that had ensued immediately dropped as though from a precipice. Everyone froze where they stood, awe-stricken. Even the Commissioner paused. He half-looked to his nephew, as though to ask if he knew about the creature.

There was a soft murmur from the advisors and officers as they spoke amongst each other or leaned in to their superior only to be ignored.

“That’s a dragon,” Gwen heard someone whisper.

“It can’t be real,” said another.

“Is that how he tamed the other creatures?” yet another more astute advisor speculated.

Gwen was holding her breath, waiting for the world to start up again in a blur of noise and action. However, it was taking longer than she’d expected. She looked to Merlin, wondering if he’d slowed time. Merlin was looking at Arthur.

_Everyone_ was looking at Arthur. 

And Arthur didn’t even notice. His eyes were level with the dragon’s, and his mouth was softly agape as he stared into them. He looked as though he’d never seen the creature before and was just as amazed by its presence as everyone else in the room. Then, his mouth closed and his jaw shifted into something proud and determined.

Pride instantly bloomed in Gwen’s chest. She knew that look. The creature had reminded Arthur who he was: a Pendragon.

Arthur turned his eyes, radiant and fierce as fire, to those standing around the table.

“I am Arthur Pendragon, King of Camelot, the city which once stood in this same place,” he proclaimed. The words were like a gust of wind that nearly knocked Gwen off her feet. 

“But who I was does not matter. I don’t know if you came here today looking for a hero, and I do not know if I am that man. I cannot offer you money or an army, or a simple way of defeating our enemy. What I can offer you is insight into Morgana’s tactics,” he looked at Simmons, “a safe harbour for your people;” his eyes flashed briefly to Merlin, “and power to rival the Neo army. Possibly even surmount it.”

He softened slightly when Dagnija chirped happily at him, seeming as though she’d jump to any command he gave in a moment’s notice.

“I know what it means to fear magic,” he said. “I refuse to fear it any longer. I see now that not all magic is an evil. Perhaps our best chance is to use it to our own end—for peace. Too long have we lived in the shadow of a War waged in a world long gone. It’s time to build a new world, but we can only hope to do that if we join together and fight against those that would keep us in the past.”

Across the table, Simmons raised her chin, as though the words had illuminated something in her. Darby was searching the wood of the table, but clearly processed every word. The Commissioner was nodding his head in fierce agreement, and Owen’s agreement was more resigned.

“We owe it to _our_ people to try,” Arthur finished. “Who will stand with me?”

There was a pause, and Gwen feared no one would rise to the challenge. She wondered if they would take time to think it over, or if they would immediately refuse. She stayed these thoughts, forcing optimism as though it were an airborne contagion.

“London will,” the Commissioner said. “I have contacts in Brown’s government. I will get you a meeting with him, Arthur.”

Arthur breathed in sharply through his nose to fight back his grin. He nodded sternly in gratitude.

Next, Darby spoke, “If this _committee_ ,” he said, looking to Simmons, “sees it fit to become a union, the Midlands will provide it with the beginnings of its army—provided Exeter supports it financially.”

“Leave it to me,” Arthur promised him.

“If there is any strength left in Britain, I will do what is best for the good of my country,” said Owen, eyeing the red creature beating its wings on Arthur’s arm.

Arthur squared his shoulders in a silent promise. Gwen bit back on her grin. Everyone’s attention shifted to Simmons, who again was staring at the hanging Round Table. However, this time, she did not look wary or concerned. She wore the face of a child who so badly wanted to cling to their youthful beliefs. Such wistful sensations were battling with the sensibility of her adulthood.

Finally, she turned back and said, “I want safe passage for Anglican citizens who have been removed from their homes during Morgana’s occupation. I want refuge for them until our army is equipped enough to take back the capital.”

“You have my word,” Arthur swore. “They’ll have a home in Winchester, and enough work to earn their livelihoods.” 

Simmons nodded to him, and then to her fellow colleagues, “Then, Anglia will have a seat at this committee.”

Arthur lowered his arm, and Dagnija instantly flew off to perch on Merlin’s shoulder. Merlin smiled at her and fed her a piece of jerky from his pocket as a reward. 

“Then, it’s decided,” Arthur said. “Let’s stop standing around and begin.”

He sat, and Gwen planted herself next to him again. There was another symphony of chairs scraping against stone as everyone settled. During it, Arthur turned to the person sitting next to him and asked, “Do you mind moving elsewhere? You’re in my husband’s seat.”

 

///

 

The battle of Walstall was over. Their victory had taken four days. The Midland’s army had done their best to defend the town. They came in, nine hundred men strong, to drive the Neo forces out. Mordred’s troops were outnumbered two to one, until the squadron coming in from Stourbridge merged with their camp on the second day.

Darby’s army couldn’t call for backup. They were already spread too thin along the Anglican border. They were beaten easily, and Morgana instructed her men not to leave any survivors. 

The troops had taken their instructions very well.

Morgana walked through the streets, ragged and disembowelled by blood and smoke. Her soldiers, who’d been tasked with clearing away the dead, stopped and bowed as she passed. 

“It appears to have been a good fight,” said Morgause, strolling besides her. Malcolm trailed behind them, constantly surveying the area like a hawk, his rifle in his hands.

Morgana lifted her chin to the old stone church that rested at the end of the street. The sharp lines of the steeple were made fuzzy by the black smoke filtering upwards around it. The statues on the stone face were crumbled. Other than that, the church was the only building not left in ruin.

She made for it, and found Mordred inside. He was giving orders to a group of soldiers, but stopped when his eyes met Morgana’s. All the soldiers turned in question, and quickly scrambled to their knees. She squared her shoulders and let them linger for a moment before saying, “Leave us." 

Quickly, they did as they were told, none of them meeting her eyes as they passed. Malcolm closed the door of the church and shut Morgana, Morgause, and Mordred inside. 

Mordred bounced down from the alter, his arms outstretched like the statue of Christ above him, except with more victory. “Another successful battle,” he reported, a grin cracking the grime on his cheeks. “We are awaiting one more squadron coming from Lichfield. They will meet us here before we march to Birmingham.”

“Well done, Mordred,” Morgana praised. “Soon, the whole midland region will be under our—.”

The door opened again, cutting her off. “My queen, a message just came through from York,” Malcolm said. He let the door slam closed behind him as he strode into the church, his boots clunking against the cracked tiles. There was something urgent on his face, and Morgana knew he would not have interrupted her unless it was important.

“Speak,” Morgause demanded.

“There was an attack on our patrols outside of Leeds. They were torn to bits,” he told them.

Morgana’s eyes went wide. She felt her chest tighten with dread. “Arthur?”

“I think so, my queen, but they weren’t part of any army. When our soldiers were taken into the infirmary, they all said the same thing. They were attacked by a group of farmers from a nearby civil parish, proclaiming their loyalty to someone they called the Twice Crowned King.”

The floor dropped out from beneath Morgana. She turned, clutching her stomach like she’d be sick and gripping onto the back of a pew for support.

“Morgana?” Mordred asked, touching her shoulder. His fingers were too cold. She jerked away and caught her breath.

“I hoped to never hear that name again,” she breathed.

Morgause tentatively stepped forward. “Sister, you must push this from your mind. You have the campaign to focus on.” She did not seem fazed by the attack at all. In fact, Morgause didn’t even appear surprised.

Morgana looked at her, suddenly stricken by the truth. “This wasn’t the first attack, was it?” she asked, hoping it wasn’t true. Morgause’s lips thinned in something akin to an apology, even though Morgana knew it wasn’t one. She wouldn’t have accepted it anyway. She was furious. “And you did not think it important to tell me?”

“I did not,” Morgause admitted. “I did not deem the information pertinent to what we’re trying to do. These attacks in the Territory began weeks ago, when we were in Anglia. You had to focus on the campaign, not some zealots easily crushed. I sent Cenred to deal with the matter soon after the second attack took place.”

“Cenred?” Mordred steamed. “What good could he do? He hasn’t any magic. He’s no better than those _zealots_. For all we know, he’ll join them in their uprising!”

Morgause scoffed at him as though he were a fool. “Child, do not confuse riots for a revolution. And do not underestimate my hold on Cenred. He will remain loyal, and York will stay under Morgana’s control. Arthur has no power in our lands. He hasn’t even power in the provinces—.” 

“Yet,” Mordred interrupted, a mutiny of his own flashing in his eyes. “You don’t know Arthur like I do. People will flock to him. It seems they already have. You’ve heard the rumours about him. They spread even through our Territory. They will give people hope.”

“Which is a very dangerous thing to give slaves,” Morgana agreed. She sneered at Morgause. “How could you not tell me?”

At last, Morgause seemed scolded. The only indication of her remorse was a quick look at the floor. She said, “Forgive me, sister. I assure you, Cenred has control over it. He will find these rebels and bring them to York for justice.”

“And I will give it to them myself,” Morgana assured her, making a decision. “We’re returning to York.” 

Instantly, she was met with objections from all sides. Mordred’s were the loudest. He said, “We’re so close to marching on Birmingham! You just said, once the city is ours, the Midlands will be under our control. Don’t throw away all we’ve fought for now, Morgana!”

She thought he wouldn’t understand. She was not giving up the campaign. The troops would continue to march towards Birmingham, but she was needed in York. She would not allow Arthur’s influence to take hold of the lands she already ruled. She had to crush the rebellion, and swiftly. She would not allow them to launch an attack on her base, lest her own people would think her weak.

She had no intention of giving up the provinces. She would have them, just as she would have Winchester—Camelot—as was her birthright. She would take Arthur’s lands from him, not the other way around. That was what mattered: ruling Camelot, not Anglia or the Midlands or any other province. Camelot. Without it, she might as well have been a queen of air and darkness.

But, in the meantime, she needed to keep the lands she already held. 

“We will rejoin the army when the fight is nearly won,” she promised him. “Then, I will use our weapon on the city, and the Midland State will be ours as well. Until then, we cannot leave York vulnerable.”

Morgause shook her head. “This is why I did not tell you about the attacks. You _must_ think clearly about this. I beg you to reconsider.”

Morgana glared at her sister. “I will listen to you no more tonight, Morgause. You have said enough—or too little. If I had known of these attacks sooner, I would have been able to stifle them before any more took place. Now, I must show these slaves who they belong to.”

Morgause and Mordred shut up, and Morgana turned to Malcolm. “We will take a squadron back to York with us to secure the base. Until then, I want word sent to double the patrols throughout my Territory. Go now.” 

Malcolm bowed his head and rushed from the church.

Then, Morgana looked at Mordred and ordered, “Instruct the rest of the troops to continue towards Birmingham as planned.” 

“Yes, my queen.”

Finally, her glare fell back on Morgause. “Do not ever lie to me again,” she warned.

Morgause said nothing, but could not hold Morgana’s stare. Morgana decided to have mercy on her. She still needed her sister at her side, after all.

“Find me tonight. We will begin our counterattack against Arthur at once. We will soon ensure no one holds any faith in him, beginning with his precious sorcerer.”

Morgause bowed low to show she understood.

 

///

 

All these things and more came to Merlin: a sword protruding from a stone in the middle of a glen; a noose being set up in the centre of a courtyard; a row of funeral pyres blazing orange against the night; a white ball of light, pure and blinding.

Merlin was running so fast he thought his heart would give out on him. It pounded furiously in his ears, sounding like the climax of an executioner’s drum. He hadn’t run like that in a long time. It brought back memories of fleeing from bandits hot on their tail.

He wasn’t fleeing from bandits. He was escaping from Winchester—from Arthur.

The sound of jeeps racing along the forest path caught up with him. He tried to stay in the tree cover, away from the road. He still heard the tyres on dirt, kicking up rocks and crunching the fallen leaves beneath. Not so distant shouts filled him up. Dogs were barking as they sniffed him out.

He looked over his shoulder to make sure his pursuers weren’t close. It was a mistake. He tripped on some bramble. The ground tore into his palms as he tried to catch himself and ripped his jeans. He hissed at the shooting, fiery pain in his ankle. His knee was bleeding. 

“Over here! This way!” someone called. The dogs were getting louder. He could hear them snarling.

He had to get up. He had to get up. He didn’t want to get up. He wanted it to be over.

Figures surrounded him. Canine saliva dripped onto his cheeks as a dog nudged him with his nose. Pendragon red filled his senses. It was once such a welcome colour. It meant safety. Now it was a warning, as red always was. It meant blood and death and fire.

Fire. So many had already gone the way of the flames. But the flames wouldn’t work on him.

Swords and guns were drawn. Gwaine, Percival, Elyan, and Leon were standing over him, an army behind them. Their faces were set in determination, and hints of fear. And hints of guilt. He didn’t struggle against them as they pulled him to his feet and dragged him away.

Merlin didn’t know how he got back to Winchester from there. He was in the forest, and then he was in the courtyard outside the Great Hall. The bits in between were taken out, like in a dream. But this wasn’t a dream. It wasn’t even a nightmare.

It was inevitable.

The doors of the hall opened. Merlin was pushed to his knees, a mockery of genuflection. He’d been on his knees all his life.

A tear slipped off his nose and hit the stone below.

Arthur came out of the hall. Gwen was beside him, her elbow hooked in his. King and Queen.

“Where did you find him?” Arthur asked. He sounded so unlike himself. He sounded more like Uther.

Merlin hung his head. He didn’t want to see him. All he’d waited for, all he’d loved—all his life. It was for nothing.

“The forest, sire,” said Leon. “Should we take him back to his cell?”

“No,” said Arthur. There was a sharp whoosh, the sound of a sword being drawn. “There’s no point in waiting for his trial now. He’s already proved his guilt by running. He’ll die, like the rest of them.”

Merlin could kill them all with a blink of his eyes. Why didn’t he? Why did it hurt so much? He could have eaten them alive and spit them out again. Why shouldn’t he?

Arthur. How could he hate Arthur so much, and still love him more than his own life?

“A fire, my lord?”

“It won’t work.”

The tip of Arthur’s sword pressed against Merlin’s shirt. It hovered there steadily, and Merlin watched it for a long time. His red face reflected in the polished metal. He followed the line of the sword up. He had to look at Arthur, just one more time. He had to see if Arthur was in pain, too.

He wasn’t. His expression was cold and dead. He felt nothing but disgust for Merlin, and Merlin didn’t know why.

Merlin breathed in a shaky, uncontrolled breath. He used it to say, “Arthur—.”

“Enough,” said Arthur, and the tip of his sword dug slightly into Merlin’s chest. It stung in reminder that it could kill Merlin—and now it would. “I won’t listen to any more of your lies.” 

Merlin didn’t speak again. It was a good last word. A good last breath.

He closed his eyes. His tears had been blinding him, anyway. Arthur’s face was a good last sight.

The cold metal of the sword was drawn back, coiling to strike. Merlin’s life didn’t flash before his eyes. It was much too long for that. But Arthur’s did.

God, Merlin wished he could change everything about it.

There was no pain, just darkness. And then more images flashed before his eyes. They went by too quickly for him to remember anything he’d seen. They were just streaks of colour and sound. His name was being called. 

“Merlin! Merlin, wake up!”

He followed the command. His eyes burst open. His vision was bleary and wet, and Arthur swam into focus. The morning sun coming through the window lit up his bed head. His brow was pulled together in concern.

Merlin’s first instinct was to run, and then Arthur put his hand over his heart.

“What was it?” Arthur asked like he didn’t want to know the answer. He was already pale.

The bed sheets were twisted around Merlin’s legs. He must have been thrashing as fast as he thought he’d been sprinting. 

Merlin drank in bouts of air. “A nightmare,” he managed to say.

“Are you sure? It wasn’t the Crystals?” Arthur pressed.

Merlin closed his eyes. Arthur’s twisted, hateful face was behind them, so he opened them again to the real thing. It calmed him enough to shake his head. 

“No,” he lied. It felt like a lie. He prayed it was the truth.

It felt like he was lying to himself.

Arthur breathed out in relief. “If you’re certain,” he said, nodding to himself. “It’s gone, Merlin. You’re awake now.” 

Merlin clamped his jaw and tried to believe he was safe.

Arthur sat back against the headboard. He was still concerned, which meant Merlin looked especially shaken. “What was it about?” 

Merlin couldn’t tell him. “I can’t remember.” Maybe if he said it aloud, he’d will himself to forget. He still felt the iron around his wrists.

Arthur narrowed his eyes like he didn’t believe him, and it made Merlin wince. Maybe Arthur’s hatred was already starting. But then Arthur softened, not pressing the matter. He clapped Merlin’s shoulder in a way that must have meant comfort.

“It’s early. Come on, we can have a long breakfast before the start of the day,” he said.

Merlin didn’t want to get up. He wanted to hide away forever. He wanted to hold off the future for as long as he could. It seemed so inescapable in that moment, no matter how he told himself Arthur would never go down that road.

He sniffled and wiped his nose with his sleeve. “Okay,” he agreed. 

Arthur got out of bed. “Get dressed.”

He left, and Merlin was alone. He ran his palms down his face.

It was just a nightmare. It wouldn’t happen. It was only his bitter imagination fuelling a fire. It was only his mind, the twisted and old thing that it was. 

It felt heavy. It felt like a lie.


	3. Chapter 3

A month had already passed since the committee’s first meeting. Simultaneously, it felt like a decade and a blink of the eye. Refugees from Anglia and the Midlands began coming in, families first, looking for jobs and for roofs to put over their children’s’ heads. Next, came farmers and livestock herders looking to take advantage of Winchester’s fertile land. People from the other provinces trickled in, too, hoping for employment.

Arthur did what he could to help them, to put them to work rebuilding the city and staffing the government buildings and hospitals; although, he left much of that up to Gaius, Merlin, and Gwen. The only part of that which really affected Arthur was the staffing of the manor. Mr. Ainsworth, who had been the butler at Buckingham, took on the role in Arthur’s new home. His wife, Agnes, became the manor’s cook, the position she also had in Buckingham. Arthur allowed them to hire whomever they needed for the rest of the manor’s staff.

In the meantime, the committee met every third day. Once the initial matters of relocation and the building of an army were settled, the meetings would take place twice a week so the other committee members would not have to travel from their own provinces so often. Simmons, however, remained in Winchester to be with her people until they could reclaim Anglia.

Commissioner Wallace wasn’t at that day’s committee meeting. His nephew sat in his place, much to Arthur’s dismay. Wallace’s loud voice boomed off the flint of the walls and echoed against the high ceiling. It gave Arthur a headache. He was much too tired for it after being awoken prematurely, for what felt like the hundredth time that month, by Merlin’s thrashing.

He hoped he wasn’t yawning too much, and often found his thoughts drifting away from him in bouts of micro-sleep, only to be jerked fully awake again by Wallace’s voice. 

His eyes kept flickering to Merlin beside him. Merlin didn’t seem to be paying much attention, either.

The committee discussed more farms they could open in the areas outside of Winchester. Darby suggested the bulk of the military be moved to one of the provinces for training purposes. He no doubt had the Midlands in mind, but Owen suggested Wales.

In the end, they decided on the neutral Winchester. It seemed their city would soon be filled to the brim.

After the meeting, Arthur said his goodbyes to Darby and Owen, who then set off back to their respective province. Simmons and Gaius left together, discussing the cultivation of medical herbs for the hospital as they went.

Arthur stayed behind with Merlin, Gwen, and Wallace.

“Well, I think that was rather productive,” Gwen said in a way that suggested she wanted to leave the Great Hall and enjoy the rest of the day in peace. Arthur was certain she’d go straight to the training pitch to find Lancelot.

“Was it? I couldn’t hear anything over Wallace’s shouts,” Arthur only half-teased. His tiredness was making him a little testy.

Wallace collected his papers haphazardly and walked around the table to them. As he did, he said, “Gotta be heard, right? Or else these guys’ll never listen.”

“I think we all heard you.”

Gwen sniggered softly, trying to hide it.

“Next time you sit in for you’re uncle, we’ll have to put you outside.”

“Ambrosius wouldn’t let you kick me out,” Wallace said adamantly. Merlin was still seated. He looked like he’d just woken up upon hearing his name. “Right, man? You’d have my back.”

“I’d kick you out myself.” 

“What? C’mon! We got a history. I was your best man at your wedding, remember?”

That’s not how Arthur remembered it.

“You were my witness,” Merlin corrected, standing up.

“Whatever!” Wallace grunted in annoyance and tapped his fingers against the papers held to his chest. “Well, you don’t want me here? How about we get the telephones lines back up and running and, next time Uncle Baz isn’t here, he can do a conference call?”

Arthur eyes lit up. “Actually, that’s not a bad idea!” He still didn’t understand how telephones worked, but the ease of communications between the provinces would come in handy. He grinned toothily, making it Wallace’s problem. “London can provide people to repair the telecommunications.”

Unfortunately, Wallace didn’t seem put upon at all. In fact, he looked a little overjoyed by the fact of having a good idea. “Done! As long as we can make television a thing again, too.”

“Why, so you can watch soap operas all the time?” said Merlin.

“Nah. I was more of a sports guy, myself. Hockey, baseball, football—uh, American football. Anything, really. Except—do you know people used to watch fishing? They actually used to sit in front of the TV and watch other people fish. Can you think of anything more boring?”

Arthur didn’t see how any of this was relevant. “Does this conversation count?”

“Oh, nice!” Wallace wasn’t really offended. Or, if he were, he’d get over it shortly. His grudges lasted about as long as a fish’s memory. “You gonna use that kind of diplomacy on Chancellor Brown?”

Arthur’s heart jumped in excitement. Gwen beat him to the punch. “He’s agreed to meet with us?”

“Sure did. My uncle got you a meeting,” said Wallace.

“When?” Arthur demanded.

“Tomorrow night,” was the answer as Wallace fished through his pocket and pulled out two laminated rectangular pieces of paper. “It’ll be here.”

Arthur took them from him and read what was on them. Over his shoulder, Merlin and Gwen peered at them.

“Tickets?” Merlin said, and Arthur was glad because he had no idea what they were. “To a ballet?”

Wallace shrugged. “Apparently the guy’s a fan. He built a theatre in Exeter specifically for it a few years back.”

“Well, it’s certainly good to know he has money, after all,” Gwen pondered.

Arthur hoped he’d be as generous with his funds for the war against the Neos. He pocketed the tickets and said, “Fine. Merlin and I will meet with him tomorrow night and—." 

“You sure takin’ Merlin is the best idea?” Wallace interrupted.

Arthur fumbled. He couldn’t think of a reason why he wouldn’t. He looked at Merlin unsurely out of the corner of his eyes. “I know Merlin isn’t the most cultured person,” he teased, ignoring Merlin’s offense, “but I’m certain he’ll do fine.”

Wallace rolled his eyes in annoyance. “No, not _that_!” There was another unanswered sound of protest from Merlin. “I mean, he’s, you know . . . He’s a magician. And magic is outlawed in Exeter.”

Arthur understood, but he didn’t see why that mattered. Merlin had somehow managed to hide his abilities from everyone for years in Camelot. Surely, he could manage one night. “So, he won’t do any magic. Isn’t that right, Merlin?”

“And when Brown comes to a committee meeting and figures out he’s a magician and you lied to him?” Wallace pointed out.

Arthur hadn’t thought of that. He looked at Merlin for back up, but Merlin only sighed. “He’s right. I shouldn’t go.” Arthur’s gut reaction was to protest, but before he could say anything, Merlin continued meekly, “It’ll do more harm than good.”

All it did was elicit anger. Not at Merlin, but at Chancellor Brown. Already, Arthur hated him for making Merlin feel despised and lowly. He didn’t care about the risks. Part of him wanted to bring Merlin just to incite Brown. 

He tried to calm his temper before he did something rash.

“Well, I can’t very well go alone,” he said through his teeth. “He sent two tickets. He’s expecting two of us.”

“Why not bring Gwen?” Wallace suggested, turning slightly to Gwen, who had been silent until that moment.

Hearing her name, she squared her shoulders slightly and looked to Arthur expectantly. He looked back, trying not to give away the roiling in his gut.

Although no one had asked for an explanation, Wallace stammered one out, “I mean, she was pretty good as convincing my uncle to join you. You two did it together then, right? And Ambrosius wasn’t even there!”

Merlin’s ears flushed slightly as they all recalled exactly why he hadn’t gone to Buckingham that night. Arthur clamped his jaw defensively. He knew Wallace would never imply Merlin was a weakness, but it felt very much like that at the moment.

“I mean . . .” Wallace said again, but did not clarify what he meant. “You know.” Arthur didn’t know.

“Gwen should go,” Merlin said, looking up from the floor to Gwen. He shrugged. “It’s your choice.”

Although the question had been directed at her, all eyes fell to Arthur. He cleared his throat, feeling very put on the spot. “Guinevere,” he said, trying not to make it awkward. It would be; he couldn’t stop it. He tried to tell himself this was merely business, and after all Merlin had told him to do it. “Would you accompany me tomorrow night?” 

She nodded gracefully, happy to be asked properly. “Of course.”

“Great!” Wallace exclaimed immediately. “I’ll let my uncle know!”

He left, and Gwen followed after him momentarily after a goodbye nod.

Arthur waited until she was gone and the door was sealed completely behind her. He and Merlin were the only ones left in the hall, which relieved Arthur enough to voice his thoughts. 

“I don’t like that people think that of you,” he said.

Merlin snorted, blowing it off. “Who, Wallace? He always speaks before he thinks. He didn’t mean anything by it.” 

“Not Wallace,” Arthur corrected, and faced him. “Brown. He has no right to treat you like—like—.”

“A magician?”

Arthur paused for a moment. He wasn’t sure what he’d been trying to express, and he was surprised when Merlin had put it so plainly. “No,” he denied, putting his hands of his hips. “You know what I mean. You’re not just a magician, Merlin. You’re different.” 

Merlin quirked his brow. “Am I?”

“Yes! You’re _you_!” He had the feeling he was digging himself into a hole. 

Merlin chuckled in a very forced way. “And all the other magicians are—what? Less than me?”

“Yes. _No_! Of course not, but you—.” Arthur ground his teeth in frustration. He pointed a finger in Merlin’s face. “Don’t give me that look. _You’re_ the one always prattling on about destiny! You say the same about me.”

“You don’t have magic.”

“I was only paying you a compliment.”

“By calling me a human being? Wow, thanks.”

Arthur withered. He shouldn’t have said anything, especially when Merlin was already feeling vulnerable about not being able to accompany him to the ballet.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” Arthur told him. 

“ _Sorry_ wouldn’t kill you.”

Arthur had always been too proud to apologise. He liked to think that was a stubborn trait he’d left to his youth, but his stomach still turned whenever he admitted fault, even when he knew he was wrong. He’d never been graceful with blame. Apologies always came out as sounding disingenuous.

He sighed and gestured with his hand as though willing the words forth. “I’m sorry.”

“For?” 

Why did Merlin always have to be so impossible?

“For making you feel unimportant?” Arthur guessed, trying not to wince. It was probably wrong. It sounded wrong.

Judging by the slump of Merlin’s shoulders, it was wrong.

“I’m not a mind-reader, Merlin!” Arthur snipped.

“No, you’d have to throw yourself in prison if you were.”

Merlin had muttered it, low enough for Arthur to think he’d only imagined what he heard. “What?” he bit out.

“Nothing,” Merlin sighed. Arthur suddenly noticed how tired he looked. Maybe tired wasn’t the word. He appeared overwhelmed. Arthur pulled his brows together. 

“What the hell’s gotten into you?” 

“Nothing!” He covered his face with both palms and rubbed at his eyes until they were bloodshot. Arthur didn’t know what to make of it. “You’ll need a suit for the ballet,” Merlin said suddenly, changing the subject.

He’d always been quite good at that, changing the subject to evade it altogether. Arthur had never realised it in Camelot.

But he let it slide. If Merlin didn’t want to talk, Arthur wouldn’t force it out of him.

“I’ll talk to Ainsworth,” Merlin mumbled, and breezed out of the room.

 

///

 

A short piece of black silk hung around Arthur’s neck, a smooth ribbon standing out against the clean white shirt Ainsworth had pressed for him. Merlin hadn’t seen anything so posh in a long time.

Arthur fiddled with the cloth in annoyance before Merlin put him out of his misery, mumbling about how useless of a prat Arthur was. They stood in the foyer at the bottom of the stairs in the manor, waiting for Gwen to come down. That’s where Merlin fixed Arthur’s bowtie, amidst the bright chandelier and the tiles so polished they reflected like mirrors. 

Fifteen hundred years and Merlin had learned to blend in anywhere—apart from here. Fifteen hundred years and he still felt like he didn’t quite belong in a place like this, except to serve those people who did. People like Arthur.

“It’s a shame you’re not going,” Arthur said, his chin lifted more than usual as Merlin’s fingers formed the knot around his neck. It had been a while since Merlin had tied a bowtie, and he was a little out of practice.

“God, is it meant to take _this_ long?” Arthur, who had never tied—or had even seen—a bowtie in his life, added in a huff.

Merlin answered the first comment and ignored the second. “Nah, a ballet? I’ve been. Not really my thing.” It was a lie, an attempt at convincing himself not to be wounded that Arthur was going to a ballet with Gwen. 

Merlin had seen many ballets the world over—the Soviet Union, Milan, Lincoln Center; _Gisele_ , _Swan Lake_ , _Le Talisman_. He’d loved them all, the softness of the hues, each delicate swirl executed to perfection, every story flowing wordlessly. It was like magic.

He’d even fallen head over heels for a ballerina performing _Sleeping Beauty_ in Paris in the mid-1800s, even though he never actually met her. He saw her on stage once a week for a month before her troupe moved on. From the way she moved, precise and airy with leaps that defied gravity for much too long, Merlin was certain she had been an enchantress.

Arthur rolled his eyes. “God forbid _you_ appreciate culture.” 

Merlin straightened out the bowtie and stepped back to admire his work with a soft, “There,” muttered beneath his breath. 

He watched as Arthur cleared his throat and reached for the black suit jacket folded meticulously along the banister. He shrugged into it and shook out. Then, straightening, he asked, “How do I look?” He seemed a bit uncomfortable in the suit, and perhaps a bit nervous, but Merlin hoped that was on Chancellor Brown’s account. “Ridiculous?”

He did _not_ look ridiculous. Not in the slightest. The suit had been tailored perfectly, thanks to Ainsworth, and Arthur filled it out handsomely down to every hem. Arthur was made for these things: expensive clothes, lavish meetings at ballet theatres, government halls, and extravagant manors. It fit him as well as that suit.

Over the past three years, it wasn’t a fact Merlin had forgotten, but—yes. Yes, it had been.

He suddenly felt like a bum in his jeans and boots, but it didn’t matter. Arthur looked good enough for the both of them. So good that Merlin forgot to feign an insult.

He breathed out, and scanned Arthur up and down for what must have been the dozenth time. He nearly opened his mouth to say something—he didn’t know what, but he had the sneaking suspicion it would be a compliment—before he was interrupted by footsteps at the top of the stairs.

It was the unmistakable echo of heels on a too-high ceiling. 

Both Arthur and Merlin’s eyes flew up towards Gwen. She wore a floor-length black dress, the heart-shaped neckline showing off her piercing collarbone. Her elegant hands were covered by elbow-length black gloves. A simple necklace was strung around her neck, matching her earrings, modestly shown off because her hair was pulled up to rest on her head. 

Anyone would look gorgeous in the ensemble, but the grace of her posture as she walked down the stairs added something noble to it. She may have not been born into royalty, but she was certainly born _for_ it. 

She paused midway down the stairs when she noticed them staring at her.

“Guinevere, you look—,” Arthur breathed out, and fumbled to a stop like he couldn’t quite find the right word. Like every single word synonymous to _beautiful_ fell utterly short. 

Merlin saw the stars in Arthur’s eyes. They caught the light as well as the silver adorning Gwen’s neck. Merlin knew that look; it was the same look he had just been giving Arthur.

He also caught Gwen flash him an apologetic glance, as though she should be sorry for catching Arthur’s eye. 

“Thank you, Arthur,” she accepted with a smile, and Merlin was grateful she had saved him from ever learning the word Arthur was searching for. 

Arthur cleared his throat again, this time into his fist, and looked anywhere but at Gwen. “Shall we?” he asked, his tone more forced now, when she got to the bottom of the stairs. 

“I’m ready when you are,” she told him.

“Good. Ainsworth’s said the car’s waiting outside.” He turned back to Merlin and shuffled a little awkwardly in his expensive shoes. “Be sure not to get into any trouble while I’m gone,” he said in an attempt at a casual joke.

Merlin forced a smile and attempted a joke, too. “I’ll do my best, but no promises.” It only made him feel like a teenager whose parents were headed out for date night. He pushed it down. He had to remember they were going for business. Arthur and Gwen were their best bet at convincing Brown to join them.

“Good luck,” Merlin told them.

“Goodnight, Merlin,” Gwen said.

Arthur hovered for a moment, as though deciding whether or not he should kiss Merlin goodbye. Merlin’s heart was pounding against his ribcage, and he hoped it didn’t show. His cheeks felt hot. 

In the end, Arthur only said, “See you tonight,” and he and Gwen started for the door.

“Get him home by midnight!” Merlin called after them. It sounded light, despite how thick his throat felt.

“Ha- _ha_!” said Arthur before he closed the door behind them.

 

///

 

Sometimes Mordred wondered if things could have been different. Would events have played out the same had he not been so foolish? Had he not allowed himself to be tempted by Arthur’s empty promises? Had he joined with Morgana sooner?

Mostly, on nights like these, when the world seemed still and nothing but a campfire flickered before him, he wondered if life would have been brighter had he made different choices. He would not have come back to the world after death; he would not have needed to resurrect Morgana. That was the reason he was brought back, he knew—to bring her back to life, to help her become queen, to save the world from Arthur’s reign.

But, had she become queen of Camelot in the first place, none of this would have happened. Things would have been different, he was certain. They would have been happy. _He_ would have been happy. 

Kara would still be alive.

He swallowed hard and tried to find her face amongst the dying leaves on the trees or carved into the thick bark. The images he got in the firelight were grotesque, showing only her death. She’d been so brave, so true to her beliefs, so defiant for Morgana’s cause. He had been weak. He had let her die alone, when he promised he’d protect her. 

Sometimes, he sought out the solidarity of the forest. There was so little of it left now, when the country was once covered in thick green. But, just outside of the base at York, he’d found woods where he could make a campsite, like he and Kara used to do when they were children. They would sneak away from the Druid camp and play games in the forest. The caves were their homes, the rocks their playthings, the trees their shelters and hiding places. They’d fall asleep on the soft moss. He could still feel it damp on his cheeks.

If he concentrated hard, he could almost trick himself into feeling her presence beside him now. She would sit close to him, her shoulder brushing against his. Her smile would be gentle. She’d never need to know of war.

He blinked away the burning in his eyes and stoked the fire, causing embers to float up. Kara was not there; there was only an empty space next to him. She was gone, and never coming back. He couldn’t bring her back. He’d failed her again.

Behind him, a twig snapped. He gasped, a childlike fear arresting him briefly as he realised he’d let his guard down. He spun around on the fallen tree he’d been sitting on. When Morgana entered the firelight, he settled.

“Mordred,” she said, concern in her voice. “I’ve been looking for you. You were not at the base.”

He was suddenly shamefaced. His cheeks flushed, but not from the heat of the fire. He shouldn’t have left. Coming out to the forest was silly and wistful. He needed to be strong for Morgana.

“I’m sorry. I did not mean to frighten you.”

She paused, assessing him. Then, gently, she sat next to him in the place Kara’s ghost sat. “What’s troubling you?” 

He couldn’t help but to smile, no matter how small of a thing it was. Morgana was such a fierce queen. She commanded so many with her wrath and fury. And yet, he knew a side of her most did not. It was kind and loving, and a privilege to be subjected to. She had always been such a passionate creature in all emotions. He envied her ability to feel everything so greatly. 

“It’s nothing,” he said. He didn’t want to burden her with his guilt of the past.

She knew him better than to fall for his white lie. “You’re thinking of her, aren’t you? Kara?”

The name spoken aloud made him shiver. She was really gone, wasn’t she? 

“I come out here to be close to her,” he said, looking around at the shadowed trees. He didn’t want Morgana to see the tears well in his eyes. He tried to blink them away, but one escaped. He jabbed the furling leaves in the fire with his stick. “It’s a silly thing to do.”

“No,” she cooed, and wrapped her hands around his forearm. “She was a Druid, Mordred. She was one with the Old Religion. Out here, it’s magic is stronger. I can feel it. It’s here, as is she.”

He wished his power were as strong as hers. He could not feel the Old Religion coursing through the earth. He could not feel Kara’s spirit.

“I miss her,” he admitted. “I thought the Cup might bring her back, as it did you. I failed her.”

Morgana reached up and brushed the curls out of his eyes. “She was strong. Let her rest,” she whispered. “You can still honour her memory, Mordred. We will build the world she died for, together.” 

It comforted him slightly, but didn’t fill the pit in his chest. He wondered if Arthur’s death would. “I know,” he said. “But I wish . . .” His wishes didn’t matter. He couldn’t change his past mistakes. He sighed, and looked at her. “Have you ever loved someone so much?”

She suddenly looked very far away. “Not in that way,” she said sadly, as if once there may have been a possibility of it, but it was long gone now. He felt sorry for her, suddenly. She deserved not just for people to worship her, but for someone to love her. “But there are those I’d do anything for. You, Mordred; and Morgause. And . . .”

She smiled ruefully and shook her head.

He pulled his brows together in question. “Who else?”

“Arthur,” she said, her voice cracking around the name. He’d only ever heard her say it with spite; he almost didn’t know what it meant in a tone so sad and sweet. It made his heart plummet. She looked more vulnerable than he’d ever seen her, and he hated thinking of her that way.

“Once,” she went on. “All our childhood, he and I were each other’s solace against Uther’s abuse. But, when I needed him on my side the most, Arthur betrayed me. There was a time I believed he would be a great king. There was a time I put my faith in the man he would have become.” Her forehead wrinkled into a deep frown. “I was wrong. He became just like his father.”

“I’m sorry he let you down." 

“As am I.” 

She steadied herself, and let the past fall away. He wished he could, too. 

“But we must all live with the consequences of our actions, Arthur included,” she told him. “And, soon, we will have all we need to defeat him. Our power will grow, and he will not stand in our way of freedom.”

As she stood, he looked up to keep her gaze. He held out her hand in offering. “Come, Mordred.”

He paused momentarily, praying that he would feel Kara’s memory lingering. He couldn’t. For him, she existed only in his mind, and he would not let her death be in vain. 

He let his palm slide into Mongana’s, ready for her to guide him anywhere.

 

///

 

“Focus, Merlin. You must focus.”

Merlin was _trying_. But, the harder he tried, the further his thoughts drifted from him. Without him commanding it to, his consciousness flowed through the earth, down the hills and streets, following the car Arthur was taking to Exeter. They had just passed the Republic’s border. Arthur was nervous. 

Why was he nervous? Because of the meeting, or because Gwen was sitting beside him? Because they were alone?

“Focus, son.” Balinor always seemed to know when Merlin became distracted.

He was supposed to clear his mind of everything but his magic. He was supposed to be blocking out the rest of the world, constantly screaming at him from all directions. It hurt, it hurt, it hurt so much; but he was becoming better at making it hurt less. Slowly, he was improving. 

He sat cross-legged on the floor of the parlour, all too aware of the chilled air on his bare feet and the carpet beneath him. 

_Focus_ , he told himself. His magic bled hot around him. 

Everything in the room that had been suspended in midair—the sofa and its cushions, the lamps, the coffee table, the contents on the mantle—came crashing down at once in a cacophony of clatters and slams. 

Merlin winced. He haltingly opened one eye to gauge his father’s reaction. Balinor didn’t look angry, just disappointed. That was worse somehow. 

“Sorry.” 

“It’s because he’s not focused,” came a soft voice from the bowl filled up with water set in front of Merlin. He looked down at Freya’s visage within, and was suddenly annoyed.

“I thought I _wasn’t_ supposed to be focused on magic. That’s the problem, isn’t it? I’m supposed to be ignoring it!”

“No, you’re meant to be controlling it,” Balinor corrected. “Right now, you are letting it control you. You’re still fighting against it. Soon, the power will become a part of you, but you must let it.”

Merlin dropped his shoulders in a sigh and tightened his grip around his knees. He was fifteen centuries old. Controlling his magic shouldn’t have been this hard. He _thought_ he’d learned to master it in his twenties.

As though to muster his confidence, Freya said sweetly, “You were doing so well before. You’re letting your mind drift today, Merlin.”

“He is letting his emotions drift, not his mind,” said Balinor. 

“I can control my emotions,” Merlin snipped.

“Can you?” 

“Maybe we should try again,” Freya suggested, like she were able to feel Merlin’s mounting anger and wanted to diffuse it.

Merlin shook out, as though that could silence his mind. “Right.” He closed his eyes again and reached inside himself. He touched the spot where his conscious met the physical world. He moved the air to become lighter; he made objects forget gravity.

He was grateful for Balinor and Freya’s help. They were made from the Old Religion. They knew how to manipulate it to be seen. They were closer to it than anyone, and Merlin assumed they knew what they were doing when they advised him. However, learning to control the Old Religion passing through him like he were a conductor of its energy felt a lot like re-learning the basics of his abilities.

Levitate this. Start a flame here. Make the rain pour and the wind howl and the sun shine.

It was everything he’d been able to do since before he could walk, as simple as breathing. No one ever had to teach him these things, and yet he was learning them now. The world was lending him more power than he’d ever had, and while it was once so suffocating it drove him to the brink of madness, it was now settling in as though it were a part of him. Another sense. Another limb. These tedious lessons were helping. He just had to remember to focus.

He remembered the way Arthur looked his suit. Like a king. Like a vision. Like a god. He remembered the way he looked at Gwen. Like everything else had fallen away.

He remembered Gwen standing at Arthur’s side in his nightmare from weeks ago, and the dreams of the same nature that had plagued him since. He hadn’t told anyone of the visions, not even Gaius, but they sat in the forefront of his mind at all times. He remembered running through the forest, swords and dogs licking at his heels. He remembered the hatred on Arthur’s face.

Outside, a crack of thunder broke through the silence. It had been a clear day out. Now, a tempest was raging. Everything he’d been levitating came crashing down again.

“Forgive the interruption, sir, but Dr. Gaius is here to see you.”

Merlin opened his eyes. Balinor was gone. The bowl in front of him was just clear water, dark against the colour of the ceramic.

_Sir_. It took Merlin a moment to realise Ainsworth was talking to him.

“Um,” he stammered, “okay. Send him in. Thanks.”

Ainsworth stepped out of the parlour and Gaius came in. He was soaked through, and brushing heavy droplets off his spotted shoulders.

“This rain came from nowhere!” he said as he walked further in.

Merlin chewed on the inside of his mouth guilty and stood up. He didn’t mention that he’d inadvertently changed the weather. “I’ll get you a towel.”

Before he could take a step, Ainsworth came through carrying a pristinely folded bath towel in both hands. He gave it to Gaius and disappeared again.

“Thanks!” Merlin called after him humbly. He still wasn’t used to someone else doing things for him. It wasn’t that he minded; he just hated giving others orders. Especially a servant. He knew what _that_ was like, and it was a lot of biting your tongue (something he was never good at) and doing things you didn’t want to do without complaining (which he was especially bad at). Ainsworth, however, appeared to excel at both things.

He watched Gaius dry off and asked, “What are you doing here?” That probably sounded rude, judging by Gaius’ expression. “I mean,” he couldn’t find another way to say it, so he simply changed the abruptness of his tone, “what are you doing here?”

“I came to check up on you, you knucklehead!” Gaius shouted, and whacked Merlin’s arm with the sopping towel. 

“Ow,” Merlin said meekly, and cradled his smarting skin with his hand. “Why do you need to check up on me? I’m fine.”

“I’m certain you are,” Gaius answered in a way that meant he was certain Merlin _wasn’t_ fine. He must have noticed Merlin’s mood these passed weeks. “But I figured you might want some company while Arthur was away. I thought perhaps you could help me go over some recent medical texts. There are many new practices and procedures I need to understand if I am to run the hospital here. I have no illusions that I will be performing any of these procedures. I will leave that to those trained on the matter. But I won’t sit idly by and become irrelevant in my own field.”

Merlin sort of tuned out at the mention of Arthur. It seemed he wasn’t very good at _focusing_ on anything else at the moment. “Right . . .”

Gaius peered around the room, taking in all the mess of fallen items. “What on earth happened here?”

Merlin looked around, too, only seeing the state of the place himself for the first time. He felt especially bad for Ainsworth now. If that had been him, Merlin would have moaned about it for an hour before cleaning. Ainsworth hadn’t even sighed. 

“Oh! I was—I was practicing magic.” It sounded like a lame thing to say. He couldn’t remember the last time he had to _practice_ doing magic. It was like practicing how to use a spoon.

However, Gaius didn’t look at him pityingly. He had been there the first time Merlin learned to hone his powers. In those days, Gaius had been the one training him.

“I see. And how is it coming along?” he asked just like he used to.

_How is it coming along_ , Gaius used to say when he’d given Merlin an assignment—whether for magic or medicine. To make a potion or a poultice, to memorise a spell or an assortment of herbs. He said it when he knew Merlin was slacking off. 

Merlin shrugged and began picking things up and sorting them so Ainsworth wouldn’t have to. Or maybe it was just to keep himself busy. He couldn’t remember where everything went, and he ended up replacing the same lamp three times. 

“Okay, I think. Father says I’m doing better.” His gaze went out the window, to the rain running down the glass. “It’s better here than it was in London. It’s . . . quiet here.” Merlin would have thought it’d be the opposite. Winchester was a busy point on the ley lines. Magic was drawn to it. He thought it would have been unbearable here but it wasn’t. In fact, it was making him stronger.

That may have been because it had nothing to do with the place itself. It had everything to do with Merlin.

Gaius must have heard the _but_ in Merlin’s tone, because he raised a brow and asked, “However?”

“It wasn’t so quiet today,” he admitted into a sigh. “It’s something father said. He said I was losing control of my emotions. He thinks my control over my magic is tied to it." 

Gaius didn’t say anything. He appeared to be considering it, because he lifted his chin and folded his hands in front of him. He continued to listen.

“I think he’s right. Since we came to Winchester, I have more control of it because . . .”

He didn’t want to say it. Saying it would make it real. Real enough to be taken from him. Real enough to slip away.

Despite that, he found himself smiling, albeit softly. “I’m happy here.” 

Arthur was happy there. In Camelot. They were home, and happy together. Finally, all Merlin had lived for was coming true. His destiny. It wasn’t all for nothing.

He let out a laugh. It sounded a lot like a sob. It made his chest hurt. He didn’t know what to do with it, all that happiness.

But he knew his sadness and memory were still there, just under the surface, fighting for dominance. Whenever it won, his whole body would shut down. Every piece of him, every function, would grind to a crippling halt. He felt too heavy, too tired, too thin. Nothing worked properly, not his mind or his heart. Or his magic. He hadn’t the will the control it before, not like he did now that he was back in Camelot.

The Old Religion was quiet because _he_ was quiet.

“You have peace of mind,” Gaius said. “Often, that is the best cure for any ailment, physical or otherwise. It is the ability to believe you will be okay.”

Merlin nodded. “Yeah.” 

That day, he wasn’t so sure he believed it. Not since he saw the way Arthur looked at Gwen. Not since his nightmare that felt so much like a premonition. He felt like he was losing himself again. Merlin bent down and picked up a pillow. He didn’t place it on the sofa, but instead squeezed it between his hands. 

Gaius stepped closer and put a hand on Merlin’s shoulder. “You can still heal yourself, my boy, even if you lose faith sometimes.”

Merlin didn’t know what to say. He swallowed hard. He nodded again.

“Do you want to tell me what’s wrong?”

What could Merlin say? He wasn’t sure what he was feeling. Anger? Sadness? Fear? 

He was so afraid of losing Arthur again. He was so afraid of losing himself. He was so afraid that he’d fail his destiny again. He was terrified. 

“Arthur,” he said simply. As if the answer could be anything else. “Tell me he’s happy, too, Gaius.” He was nearly begging. He just needed to hear someone say it, even if it was a lie. He needed Gaius to lie to him.

“Oh, Merlin, of course Arthur is happy,” said Gaius. It didn’t feel like a lie, but Gaius didn’t know what question he was answering.

Merlin nodded swiftly, wanting to believe it. 

Gaius patted Merlin’s shoulder as though the matter was settled. “Now, come. You’ve done enough practicing for the day. It’s time we got you some supper. I wonder if that Agnes of yours knows how to make your favourite pudding as well as I do.”

The memory of Gaius’ cooking brought a smile to Merlin’s face. Gaius had never been a good cook, but he always tried so hard, and he was proud of his concoctions. Merlin pretended he liked them all as to not hurt Gaius’ feelings, and the ones he pretended to like the most became known as his _favourites_. Gaius always made them when he knew Merlin had a particularly rough day. Merlin never had the heart to tell him they weren’t very good, so he learned to love them.

“As well as you?” Merlin said. “I doubt it.”

 

///

 

The ballet theatre was a fairly new building in the heart of Exeter. It was built to appear classic and distinguished, with marble columns and red velvet curtains, but lacked the jagged cracks of time and the dust of the past. It _had_ to have been built after the War. Arthur wondered how much money had gone into it.

He hoped Brown was willing to put even half of that amount into the army.

An usher had been waiting for them outside the theatre. He led them through the gold and bronze lobby, where Exeter’s most wealthy citizens donned pearls and drank champagne as they shuffled into the auditorium for the performance. It was like entering another planet from what Arthur had become accustomed to as of late.

Arthur and Gwen were taken past the main doors and up a grand granite staircase to the next level. Finally, behind a guarded door and a lush curtain, they found Chancellor Brown sitting on his own private balcony. He lorded over the settling crowd below and the full-view of the dimly glowing stage. Two empty, cushioned seats were beside him. 

He stood when Arthur and Gwen were introduced. “Welcome, welcome,” he said, moving to Gwen first. “Thank you for joining me tonight.”

Gwen offered her gloved hand, and he kissed it with gentlemanly grace.

“Thank you for inviting us,” Gwen told him cordially, but did not seem the least bit impressed. She knew all of this, his antics and the theatre, were no more than a performance as flashy as the ballet itself. 

Brown moved to Arthur and extended his hand. When Arthur shook it, he immediately understood what kind of man the Chancellor was. There was pressure in his grip, and when Arthur added his own natural pressure in return, Brown’s became a cobra.

“Chancellor,” Arthur greeted, and got his first good look at the man. Brown was short and portly, but sturdy. His goatee still held too much of its brunette colouring for his age, and the hair on his head was much too full and shimmering to be real. He wore a black tuxedo with a waistband of the same deep purple as Exeter’s State flag. He probably hadn’t always been so round, because he still carried himself like a fit man, a young man, a soldier. But he’d traded his armour for silk long ago, and he’d forgotten that soldiers trudge along in the muck and the masses below; they don’t tower in marble balconies.

“Arthur,” Brown said in return, and paused. “Forgive me, I’m not sure what title to call you.”

Arthur wasn’t sure, either.

“Arthur is fine,” he said, and gestured to Gwen. “This is Guinevere, my—.” Arthur wasn’t sure what to call her, either.

“His advisor,” Gwen supplied, and it at once sat right with Arthur.

Brown said, “Excellent. Please, sit. The performance is about to begin. Have you ever seen _La Bayader_?”

Arthur did not say he’d never even heard of it. “Afraid not.”

Brown hummed in a self-important way as they all sat. “Yes, well, that isn’t your fault. The other provinces have failed to see the importance of the ballet. They’ve forgotten how such things add substance to a culture." 

“Or perhaps all their money is going to the Neo’s taxes,” Gwen said.

Brown hummed again, considering. “Yes, but I’m sure there must be _some_ funds they can use.”

Arthur and Gwen shared a long look as the curtains opened and Brown turned his attention to the stage. There was a soft applause that Arthur joined in on when he realised it was the thing to do. Then, a hush fell over the room. It remained like that, silent and dark, for longer than Arthur could hold his breath. (He wasn’t quite certain _why_ he was holding his breath, but it felt like the whole room was, too.) 

Then, before he consciously realised it, a soft melody floated towards the balcony. The lights drifted on in a vignette of pastel hues. The first dancer entered and captivated the audience. 

However, after some time, that captivation dwindled. At least, it did for Arthur. He knew there was supposed to be some kind of story going on, but he couldn’t for the life of him figure it out. How could anyone? There were no words! 

Although, maybe it was just him. Gwen seemed delighted, and Brown lulled his head back and forth in perfect rhythm with the music, as though he were conducting the orchestra himself with just a new nods.

It didn’t take long for Arthur to become bored. He wasn’t certain how long he held out, jiggling his knee and biting his lip to hold back all he wanted to say. They should have been discussing an alliance. That was, after all, why they were there.

At one point, the music diminished and the dancers leapt off stage, and Arthur took that to be his moment. “Chancellor,” he whispered, aware of the music trickling in again. He needed to grab Brown’s ear. “I was hoping to discuss a few matters of the committee with you.”

Brown barely took his eyes off the stage. “Yes, of course. Please, go on.”

Arthur caught Gwen’s eye as she leaned in to be part of the conversation. He was glad she was there to back him up. 

He began, “As you know, the Neo-Druids have increasingly become a threat since their new leader took charge. They’ve taken control of Anglia, and they remain at war with the Midlands and Scotland.”

Brown hummed and nodded, his focus still on the dancers. “Yes, I am aware of the situation.”

He seemed so blasé about it. Arthur shuffled.

“Then, you know the Neos won’t stop until all of Britain is under their control.”

Brown chuckled as though it were funny. “Are they not already?”

Arthur and Gwen shared another look. Surely, he couldn’t be so apathetic about the monster on his doorstep.

“Chancellor,” Gwen said evenly, “Anglia is on your immediate border to the north. If the Neos defeat the Midlands, too, Exeter will be next.”

“I rather think London will be next,” Brown considered.

So, that was his solution? Wait until the threat was imminent, and it wasn’t his problem before that? Arthur was beginning to get worried there would be no reasoning with this man.

“You must know they will come for Exeter eventually,” he said, trying not to grind his teeth. “Morgana will not stop, not unless we band together and make her. With all the provinces united, we will have enough soldiers to—.” 

Brown ripped his eyes away from the stage and focused on Arthur. “You already have all the forces you need. You don’t want soldiers from me, Arthur. You want money for them.”

Arthur’s jaw tightened. The music swelled.

“Yes,” he admitted, feeling it was best to be upfront.

Gwen continued, “If we _are_ to take on the Neo forces, our army will need supplies—weapons, armour, transportation, just to name a few.” She looked around the elaborate auditorium. “Exeter has more money than all of the other provinces combined.”

Brown’s chest puffed out indignantly at this. “We do. I have worked hard on giving my citizens a certain way of life. Why should I ruin it now by opening our borders?” 

“ _For_ your people’s way of life,” Arthur stressed, even though he didn’t believe it. He had seen the people of Exeter. Not all of them could afford fancy ballets and pearls. Brown was trying to preserve his own way of life; but Arthur would use it if it got him to listen. “For self-preservation. The Neos don’t care if your borders are closed. Morgana will open them herself.” 

He did not mention that the Neos had already been in Exeter, that Mordred and Morgause had hidden there for weeks with his men as captives. 

Brown seemed to agree with this. He pulled his brows together thoughtfully.

Arthur knew Brown wanted him to ask an explicit question. But he did not want to ask it on principle alone. It felt too much like begging. But, he had to think of the good of _his_ people. One of them had to care for those with no voice.

So, clenching his fists, Arthur asked, “Will you join us?” 

Brown turned back to the stage. Slowly, he said, “If I am to join, I have a few terms.”

Arthur tried hard not to groan. He had a feeling this was going to be more difficult than it had to be. He looked at Gwen, and they silently decided to play along.

“Name them.”

“I want to re-open the containment facilities for magicians in Exeter,” Brown said swiftly, as though he’d been waiting all night to say it.

Arthur’s chest caved. He wasn’t sure how he outwardly reacted. Gwen, however, scoffed in disgust.

“No,” Arthur answered severely. He remembered the maze of walls in the camp he’d seen, the ashes in the ovens, the bullet hole-riddled walls, the child’s trainer. 

Brown huffed. “ _Please_ , Arthur, you think the others don’t want this? I’m the only one brave enough to say it! The Neos have them scared—and the Neos are _why_ we need the camps open again. We need to lock them away where they can’t harm anyone.” 

“Not everyone who practices magic is a Neo-Druid,” Gwen said vehemently.

Speaking as though she were simple, Brown educated her: “Not yet. How many have flocked to the Neos these recent weeks? Given the chance, nine out of ten magicians will join them, or at least be sympathetic towards their cause! Why wouldn’t they? It’s as you said, Arthur: it’s self-preservation. It’s in their own interest to wipe us all out.”

Arthur had no response. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He didn’t know where to begin convincing Brown how wrong he was. 

But, then again, Arthur wasn’t sure where to beginning convincing himself. He didn’t believe it; he couldn’t believe it. But in some small way, no matter how he fought, he _did_ believe it—at least, to some extent. When Brown spoke, he heard Uther. When Uther spoke, Arthur heard the law of the land.

He swallowed hard and tried to remind himself that the magicians that were in the death camps were _people_ , people he’d sworn to protect. If the camps opened again, it wouldn’t be long before mere containment became systematic genocide. 

He was _so_ glad Merlin wasn’t there to hear this.

He felt Gwen’s eyes on him, sizing him up as though she were privy to his internal battle.

“Why give them the chance?” Brown concluded. “We must keep our eyes on them. If I re-open the camps, mark my words, every province will follow in suit.”

Gwen’s tone was curt when she spoke again, suggesting all the things she wanted to say but held back. “You are your own independent governance. What’s stopping you from opening them now?” 

Again, Brown chuckled. “Because, Guinevere, the Neo-Druids would declare war on us immediately. It is a very fragile system. I assure you, my citizens would support the decision, but the Neos would attack. However, with the force of all the provinces backing me, even this new Neo leader would give pause.” 

No, Arthur wasn’t certain she would.

The music died away, the audience began to applaud. Arthur eyes were locked on Brown’s. It took him a moment to realise the curtains had closed.

“Please,” Brown said, slipping on a smile, “take the intermission to talk it over.”

Gwen stood up immediately. “I believe we will. Arthur?”

The pointedness of her tone didn’t really give Arthur any option but to follow. He got up, straightening out his suit jacket in the process, and gave a tight nod to Brown. Then, he and Gwen started to the door. 

“Enjoy a drink in the lobby!” Brown called after them loftily. 

Arthur could certainly do with a drink.

However, they didn’t get as far as the bar. Gwen waited until they were at the top of the staircase, out of earshot of the guards posted at the door to the balcony, before rounding on Arthur. “You cannot be considering this.”

Arthur withered. “No.” It sounded less than convincing.

“You _know_ what he’s saying is completely ridiculous, don’t you?”

With that, Arthur’s frustration mounted. “Yes.” 

“ _Do_ you?”

“ _Yes_!” 

“But?”

He breathed, trying to settle himself. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “He won’t compromise. We _need_ his money, Guinevere. Without it, there will be no army, and no hope of defeating Morgana.”

“Don’t say that,” Gwen ordered. “We can’t assume he won’t negotiate without trying first.” 

Arthur had seen his type of man before. He wouldn’t budge, not when he held all the cards. Arthur had nothing.

“And if he doesn’t?”

“Then, we will reject his terms and find the money elsewhere.” She made it sound so simple, like money would rain from the heavens. He knew she wasn’t an idiot, either, but right now she was being too stubborn. He had to think of his people—all of them, not just the magicians.

“Maybe if we put it to a committee vote?” he reached. 

Gwen gave him a look of disappointment, immediately shaming him. “Arthur, if you do this, I will never forgive you. And neither will Merlin, even if he pretends he does.”

Suddenly, Arthur couldn’t look anywhere but at his shoes. Their black surface reflected the light of the chandelier above him. Below him were the chatter of the audience and the clinking of crystal glassware.

If he didn’t put a stop to the voice in his head—Uther’s voice—telling him to accept the terms, he’d never be able to look Merlin in the eyes again. He felt guilty just standing there, and he hadn’t even done anything yet.

“Arthur,” Gwen said, taking his hands in hers and leaning in to catch his eyes. 

It struck Arthur how _platonic_ the gesture was. It did not feel like a lover’s touch, a breath away from a kiss. Her hands were strong, comforting, and supportive, but that was all.

Arthur thought back to the night of Gwen’s resurrection. Merlin had done a tarot reading, and had pulled out a certain card. Arthur couldn’t remember what it was or what image it depicted, only it’s meaning. Merlin said it was a warning that he mustn’t become nostalgic, but that was exactly what Arthur had done.

He dwelled on the past for so long, since the day he rose from Avalon. The longing only became greater when his friends returned, too. He wanted so badly to return to his life in Camelot, for everything to go back to exactly the way it was. He wanted the protection of his father and the familiarity of home. 

He had been in love with the past.

But ever since he got to Winchester, he no longer wished for the past. The fate of Britain rested on their shoulders, and Arthur found he wanted to build a future. As he had tried to do in Camelot, he wanted to pave the way to peace for the generations to come.

He wanted the future, and he wanted Gwen to be a part of his future. He needed her wisdom and pragmatism to help him build a better world, but not as his wife or his queen; he wanted her as a friend. As an advisor.

Perhaps there would be moments where nostalgia would get the better of him, as it had before they left for Exeter. His first glance at her dressed as elegantly as she always had as queen reminded him of the days that once were. But that was their past, not their future.

And he knew she only wished for his friendship in return. She was pulled now towards another. Although, Arthur knew, she always had been. Lancelot. Some romantics might have called him _the one that got away_ ; others would say _they were never meant to be_. The romantics were wrong. Arthur saw they way Gwen and Lancelot looked at one another—the same way they always had. It was only a matter of time before they stopped pushing each other away. 

He thought maybe he should mourn because he suddenly knew that he and Gwen were really over. But he couldn’t mourn, because they weren’t over. They were just beginning, only as something new.

“I know this is a difficult matter for you, but do not become your father,” Gwen advised. “You told me once you didn’t believe everyone who practiced magic to be evil. How can you not know that, now that you have proof?” 

Arthur sighed. She was right; he felt it in his heart. But the back of his mind still itched with excuses. He pushed them down.

“We tell him no,” he decided, giving her hands a squeeze. She breathed in relief and released him.

Above them, the lights flickered to signal the end of intermission, and the audience began shuffling back into the auditorium.

“Well, then,” Gwen said, standing up straightened and flattening out the front of her dress over her stomach. “Shall we get this over with?”

Arthur still needed a drink. A stiff one.

“I’ll be right there,” he told her.

At first, she seemed reluctant to be left alone with Brown, but she squared herself and nodded. She left him at the top of the stairs, and he watched her go until she had disappeared behind the door again.

He jostled down the steps towards the lobby. But, when he got to the landing halfway down the stairs, something stopped him.

His own name. He heard it in his ear.

He looked back up the steps, wondering if Gwen had returned. They were vacant. He peered around for someone else, but saw no one.

_Arthur_ , the voice whispered again. It was female. It echoed and overlapped as it continued. _Arthur Pendragon. Once and future king. Arthur._  

Arthur’s blood ran cold. All other noises faded into the background, sounding like they were underwater. The lights dimmed eerily around him. The voice still called.

He realised it was coming from the door to his left. He turned to it fully, expecting something to tear it open and leap from it. Nothing happened.

The voice still beckoned.

Wishing he had his sword, Arthur paced towards the door. Something told him to run. Something else told him to keep going.

He reached for the crystal knob and slowly turned it. He stepped through the threshold, expecting to find another balcony beyond.

What he found instead was pitch darkness. An earthy scent arrested him, mossy and too-ripe with sweetness. The place was airless, tight and cold and damp. Something echoed as it dripped. He blinked as his eyes adjusted to the low-light, and realised he was standing in a cave. 

Shadows blurred before him. They took the shape of people, young and old—dozens of them. He tried to blink them into focus, but the figures remained smudges of colour and soft lines. The spectres were squatted or laid on what looked like blankets. The subdued glow of a campfire twinkled before them. Every movement was sluggish, like the people were wading through water. 

In the centre of it all, a woman stood. While the others appeared not to see him, she looked right at him. She was completely in focus. Her arms were crossed and a hood shadowed her face—but Arthur could _feel_ her eyes on him. 

He shouldn’t have entered that room. 

“What do you want?” he demanded, hearing his own voice echo.

_Arthur Pendragon_ , the voice said. Arthur knew it was the woman’s voice, even though her lips never moved. _Use his daughter. See his lie. Use her, King._

He heard music. It was from the performance. It wafted into his mind from somewhere very far away. 

“Who are you?” he shouted, his own voice louder to his ears than it had been before.

_She is one of us. She is a magician. Use her._

Arthur blinked, and suddenly the air wasn’t so oppressive anymore. He was on a balcony, the one directly underneath the Chancellor’s. It was still dark, but because the only lights were the ones directed at the stage. The music hit him at full force. A woman in a black tutu twirled impossibly on stage.

Arthur knew what he had to do. 

He tore back into the lobby and bound up the steps, taking them two at a time. The guards seemed harried when he rushed for the door, and looked for a moment like they might bar his entrance. They did not. One opened the door for him and he pushed past them. He hit back the curtain and re-entered the balcony with such force, Brown and Gwen’s eyes immediately tore to him.

Under their gazes, Arthur paused, suddenly sure that he was going mad. What the hell was he doing? What had just happened to him? _What the hell was he doing?_

Gwen seemed to be wondering the same thing. “Arthur?”

He paid her no mind. His eyes locked onto Brown’s. “Tell me, Chancellor, do you have a family? A wife? Children? A _daughter_?”

Brown froze. Fear flashed in his gaze for only a moment.

“I do,” he stammered. “One daughter.”

Arthur’s fists balled at his sides. “And do your citizens—these citizens that would supposedly support your decision to re-open the camps, these citizens with their anti-magic sentiment—do they know _you’re_ harbouring a magician?” 

Gwen’s gazed instantly shifted to Brown.

The Chancellor jumped up, appalled. It was a very good performance.

“How dare you! To accuse me of such things! What makes you think—?”

“Your daughter,” Arthur cut him off. “She’s a magician, isn’t she? When you open those camps again, I’m willing to bet _she_ won’t be sent to one, will she, Chancellor?”

Brown gaped. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, but all that came out were noises.

Arthur felt a rush of adrenaline and victory. 

“Here’s what will happen,” he commanded. “You and your advisors will _strongly_ consider joining our alliance. The camps will remain closed _indefinitely_ , and should my committee even suspect you have sent one innocent person to die in those facilities from now on, I will personally ensure your citizens know you have broken your own laws against magic.” 

Brown had turned a bright red with every word until he was practically glowing. His hair was slightly askew.

Gwen thinned her lips, pressing back a grin. Her chest inflated proudly. 

Arthur raised his brows. “What is your decision, Chancellor?”

 

///

 

It was well past midnight.

Lancelot watched the pendulum in the grandfather clock swing, and listened to the heavy ticking of its iron arms. He was sitting on the sofa in the manor’s parlour, after Gaius had knocked on his door hours ago and asked him to keep Merlin company. Gaius did not think Merlin should be alone, and Lancelot tried to keep him from worrying too much about Arthur.

As Lancelot should have known, _nothing_ could keep Merlin from worrying about Arthur. He paced the same square of carpet back and forth, hands on his hips and chewing on his inner cheek.

“They should have been back by now,” Merlin said. He sounded very far away, but only because Lancelot had drifted off the precipice of consciousness. The ticking of the clock had lulled him to a shallow sleep. Merlin’s voice had pulled him back. The clock had moved five minutes ahead from the last time he’d checked it.

He blinked, shook his head to clear out the cobwebs, and sat up straighter.

“I’m certain they’re on their way,” he said after Merlin’s words processed completely in his sluggish mind. His eyes burned, punishing him for keeping them open. The air around him moved slowly, as it only could so late at night.

Merlin stopped pacing. His hands remained on his hips. He appeared to be thinking.

Lancelot knew what he was thinking. He was afraid Morgana had found out about Arthur and Gwen’s trek to Exeter. When Merlin first confided in him about it, it had concerned Lancelot, too; but then he told himself to think rationally—to think like Gwen might. No one but the committee knew of the journey, and no more than a trusted few knew the car’s route. It would steer clear of anywhere in Anglia the Neos were reportedly seen.

They would be fine. They would come home.

Merlin was looking down at the velvet pouch on the coffee table. His eyes burned into it steadily. His fingers twitched at his side. 

Lancelot dragged his hand down his face and took the pouch off the table. “All these do is make you worry.”

Merlin began pacing again. It was time he went to sleep. He was exhausted, even if he wouldn’t admit it.

“Merlin—,” Lancelot began, but he was interrupted when Merlin’s head suddenly snapped up like something had caught his attention.

“They’re back,” Merlin said.

A moment later, Lancelot heard the sound of crunching gravel on the drive. Suddenly, he got his second wind.

So did Merlin. He rushed to the window and flicked open the curtain. Then, he ran to the foyer. Lancelot replaced the cards on the table and followed.

As soon as he entered the foyer, the front door opened. Gwen walked through, Arthur’s jacket draped over her bare shoulders. Arthur followed behind her. They, too, looked ready for sleep, until they spotted Lancelot and Merlin. Then, they only looked surprised.

“You’re both still awake?” Gwen reproved. “What’s the time?”

“Nearly one,” Lancelot told her. Or, at least, it had been the last time he looked at the clock. He found he was relieved to see them both. Despite his rationale, a small part of him believed Merlin’s worries. It had been a pest in the back on his mind.

“You didn’t have to wait,” Arthur said, closing the door.

Merlin snorted.

“Anyway, I’m glad you’re both awake,” Arthur continued. Next to him, Gwen took off his jacket and handed it back to him. Lancelot wanted to tell her how lovely she looked, even as the night wore on. He hadn’t a chance to see her fresh, but it did not matter. That lateness of the hour made her soft. Her eyes were bruised tiredly and her hair was slightly askew. She didn’t carry herself with her usual sharpness.

Lancelot didn’t have to see her all dressed up to think her beautiful. He wanted just this: to see her come home at the end of the night. He wanted just this: comfort. He wanted just this: Gwen.

He might have said all this. Or, more realistically, he would have stumbled out a, “You look beautiful.” However, judging by the lines of Arthur’s shoulders, whatever he had to say was significant. 

“Chancellor Brown has agreed to join us,” he said. “After the performance, we discussed terms of the alliance. I’ll need to report them to the committee tomorrow.”

Lancelot gave another breath of relief. “Thank god for that.”

“I’m not sure we have god to thank,” said Gwen, looking at Arthur out of the side of her eyes. It puzzled Lancelot. 

“What do you mean?” Merlin asked, beating him to it. He was still worried, perhaps more so now.

Arthur cleared his throat into his fist, like he was trying to find the best way to phrase what he was about to say. Something told Lancelot that Merlin wasn’t going to like it.

“Brown wanted to re-open the prison camps.”

Merlin wavered slightly and whatever colour was left in his face drained, but he did nothing more. For a moment, Lancelot worried that Arthur went along with the negotiations.

“He won’t be. I learnt his daughter is a magician. I told him, if he uses the camps again, the whole of Britain will know his secret.”

Lancelot gaped. “You _blackmailed_ him into joining the alliance?" 

“Lancelot, you were not there,” said Gwen. “We had no choice but to be forceful. Our alliance with him will be precarious, I understand that; but Arthur did what had to be done.” She paused, looked at Arthur, and bit her lip as though holding back a laugh from a private joke. “And the Chancellor deserved it, anyway. He was . . .” 

“A bastard,” Arthur finished for her. “I believe those were your exact words, Guinevere.”

Gwen shrugged unapologetically.

“How did you learn his daughter is a magician?” Merlin asked. Lancelot hadn’t even noticed that part. He’d latched onto the blackmail, and completely missed the rest of it. 

Arthur shuffled. So _this_ was the bit he knew Merlin wouldn’t like. 

“There was a woman. She knew me. She called out to me—in my head.” 

Lancelot watched Merlin and Arthur very carefully. Gwen said nothing, no doubt having already heard the story.

“She took me somewhere—or, she came to me, like a vision. I’m not sure where she was. Some cave,” Arthur continued. “She told me about Brown’s daughter. I don’t know how she knew.” 

For a while, they all stayed quiet. Lancelot heard the clock ticking from the next room. Sometimes, he couldn’t quite believe this was his life. It was far more magical than he’d ever expected.

“You followed . . . a woman . . . into a cave?” Merlin deadpanned slowly.

“A woman’s voice,” Arthur corrected.

“Oh, that makes it even better!” 

Arthur rolled his eyes. “It all worked out for the best!”

“It could have been Morgana, for all you knew!” 

“It _wasn’t_ Morgana.” 

“How do you know? What did she look like?” 

Lancelot and Gwen met each other’s eyes. Neither of them were sure if they should remain or silently duck out, leaving Merlin and Arthur to their squabble. There was no subtle way to exit.

This could take a while.

“I don’t know,” Arthur was saying. “She was wearing a hood.”

Merlin blanched. “A hood? Okay, Arthur, if there’s one thing I’ve learnt in my life, it’s that if a woman wearing a hood in a cave wants to tell you you’re future, run away immediately—Don’t laugh! It’s good advice!”

Gwen stepped in, attempting to diffuse the situation. “Whoever it was, only seemed to want to help.”

But the question remained: who was it? It was not a question that would be answered that night.

“I think we’re all tired,” Lancelot said, pointedly looking at Merlin. “Perhaps it’s time for sleep.”

“I agree,” said Arthur, even though he must have known Merlin would be up all night asking him questions.

“Well, then,” Gwen sighed. It was halfway to a yawn. She nodded to Arthur, and then to Merlin. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” Arthur told her softly.

Lancelot gave Merlin one last glance before following Gwen to the door. Once outside, they hovered in the light of the outside sconces. 

“Should I find a driver?” he asked.

She smiled at him. “I’m tired of cars, Lancelot. It’s a lovely night.” She slipped her hand into his. “It’s not _that_ late. Let’s walk.”

Something swelled in his chest as they stepped off the porch.

“You look beautiful,” he told her.

She blushed.

 

///

 

Merlin turned down his side of the bed. He wanted nothing more than to lay down, but he couldn’t bring himself to get beneath the covers. His feet remained glued to the floor, and his fingers loosely gripped the edge of the duvet.

Arthur shut off the bathroom light and entered the bedroom. He scrubbed his face with both hands, still wet from the water he’d splashed onto his eyes. Some of the droplets lined his bare chest. Merlin saw them hit the light as he padded closer.

He didn’t realise he was staring until Arthur looked back, eyes red with sleep. “What?”

Merlin shook his head and looked down.

He heard Arthur sigh. It mixed with the sound of rustling sheets as Arthur got into bed. He stayed sitting up, his hands resting in his lap. “I’m sorry,” he conceded. “I shouldn’t have gone after that woman.” 

He didn’t really mean it, and Merlin couldn’t blame him. Arthur always had been too courageous for his own good, even when his bravado bordered on insanity. 

But, usually, Merlin was there to be insane with him.

“You wouldn’t be Arthur if you didn’t,” Merlin found himself saying. He slipped into bed. He hadn’t realised how heavy he’d felt until that moment. 

There was something else snapping at Merlin’s mind, sending shivers down his spine and chilling his hands. “When the Chancellor said he wanted to re-open the camps, were you tempted?” He wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer.

He wouldn’t be angry if Arthur said yes. After all, it took a lot to unlearn the beliefs one had been raised into. But he knew he’d be sombrely disenchanted, and a little terrified. He allowed himself to ignore Arthur’s prejudice to magic, to tell himself Arthur was passed it. It was only when he was confronted to the fact of it, did he realise how fragile his hope was.

He remembered his nightmare. He had tried so hard to convince himself it wasn’t from the Crystals. He didn’t want to believe it was a prophecy, and that Arthur’s prejudices weren’t part of their future. 

Merlin had been holding his breath for weeks. The word _please_ echoed like a prayer in the back of his mind at all times, a ceaseless mantra. _Please let it be in the past._  

Arthur let out another breath. He paused far too long for his answer to be anything but _yes_.

“Brown brought up some good points,” he allowed, sounding guilty for it. “There are many who would be sympathetic to Morgana’s cause.”

Merlin was too tired to feel anything.

“But not all. Perhaps, not even most,” Arthur said with more force. “Thankfully, Guinevere was there to remind me of . . .”

Merlin pulled his brows together. He looked up. “Of what?”

Arthur dropped his shoulders like voicing the thoughts tumbling through his head was ridiculous. “Of you,” he admitted.

Warmth spread through Merlin. 

“Thanks to you, I _know_ now that not everyone who practices magic is evil,” Arthur continued apologetically. “Forgive me if there are times that I forget that.” 

Something close to a smile twitched the corners of Merlin’s lips. The breath he’d been holding in eased out of him. Maybe it had just been a nightmare, after all. 

“It’s a good thing you have me to keep you in line,” he only half-joked.

Arthur snorted, knowing he was forgiven. When he met Merlin’s eyes, the mirth slipped from his expression and turned into something genuine. He nodded once. He believed Arthur. 

As Arthur moved to turn off the lamp, Merlin reached to the nightstand for his bottle of pills. He shook two into his palm, even though he wasn’t sure he needed them that night. He would probably fall asleep as soon as he hit the pillow. But he was tired, and he’d rather be safe than sorry.

With any luck, there would be no dreams that night.


	4. Chapter 4

“Take the shot,” Gwaine instructed.

Arthur tried to control his breathing. He learnt it was important to control one’s autonomic functions while firing a gun, lest they miss their mark. He squinted one eye over the short barrel of the pistol and tried to get a feel for it. The metal felt odd in his hands, too clunky and insecure. He much preferred his sword to it, but reminded himself that these were the ways of the new world, and thus important to know.

“Arthur.”

“Shh!”

He could almost feel Gwaine’s eye roll, as much as he could feel the stares of the rest of his knights around him. They had gone out early to the training pitch, before any of the other troops lined up for sparring and training practice for the day. Before any of the lieutenants and drill sergeants arrived, and before Gwaine and Leon once again surpassed their skills with a sword. 

Gwaine had become quite talented with firearms over the last month and a half, and Arthur thought it important all his men learn the skill. It wouldn’t give them an advantage over Morgana’s immortal army, but it would at the very least slow them down.

Arthur loosed the trigger and sent the bullet flying into the right shoulder of the straw man lined up on the other side of the pitch. The crack the shot sent out echoed along the frostbitten field, and Arthur lowered the weapon, ignoring the tingling it caused in both hands.

He assessed the shot, watching the bits of wood and straw that blasted off the target rain down to the grass. He’d been aiming for the heart. Damn.

“Not bad,” Gwaine said with a shrug.

Arthur glared it him out of the sides of his eyes. “Not good enough.”

“It was your first time firing the weapon, Arthur,” Elyan placated, and wrinkled his nose at a straw man a few rows down. The arm had been blown off. “And it was better than I managed.” 

“At least we know we can call on you if we need to disarm anyone,” Percival teased.

“Hey! No bad puns on my training pitch,” said Gwaine.

“Last I checked, it was my pitch,” Leon corrected. 

“You’re both wrong,” Arthur said, putting the safety back on. “It’s mine.” He held the pistol towards Lancelot, the only one of them to not yet have a turn. “Lancelot.”

Politely, Lancelot held up his hands and took a step backwards in refusal. “I’d rather stay with a sword,” he declined.

_So would I_ , Arthur almost complained, but managed to keep it to himself. “We should all learn, Lancelot. The rest of the soldiers look to us for guidance. They won’t take us seriously if one among us can’t fire a gun.” 

Lancelot eyed the gun unsurely but made no move toward it. 

“It’s like firing a crossbow,” Gwaine said, as though to put him at ease.

Tentatively, Lancelot took the gun. Satisfied, Arthur stepped out of the way and let Lancelot take his place in front of the mark. Gwaine walked him through his stance and how to ready the weapon. 

“Right,” Gwaine said with finality, taking a step back. “Fire.”

Immediately, three shots erupted from the pistol. The straw across the pitch exploded from the chest. Three clean shots.

Lancelot lowered the gun.

Arthur was almost positive it wasn’t his first time firing the weapon.

“It is a little like a crossbow,” Lancelot considered modestly.

Gwaine whistled as the straw scattered in the breeze. “Maybe we should let him take over training, Leon.”

“I could certainly use a day off.”

Arthur rolled his eyes, trying not to let the fast tandem of his jealous heartbeat show in his voice. “No one’s getting the day off,” he huffed.

“Except _you_ ,” said Gwaine. 

Arthur swore and checked his watch. It was still early morning. The pitch would be filled in a half hour’s time, but he had other planning to do, planning that was quite separate from wars and skirmishes, but something much more difficult than that.

“Tell Merlin we say hello,” Elyan said with a smirk.

Percival added, “If you do any talking.”

It was met with a few sniggers, and Arthur definitely did his best not to turn red.

“All of you, keep at it until you’ve met your marks a dozen times over,” he ordered, and the sniggers turned into groans. He turned to Lancelot and gave a vague wave of his hand. “Lancelot . . . try a moving target.”

Lancelot bowed his head. 

Arthur looked at his watch again. The time had barely changed since he last looked at it, but he felt the day slipping away from him. He walked off the pitch.

 

///

 

Outside Morgana’s window, soldiers were conducting shooting practice. Intermittently, the drill sergeant shouted out his command, and the crack of two-dozen guns fired simultaneously flattened the air.

Before the desk, Morgause was pacing, her arms folded and her nail tapping against her elbow in displeasure. In fact, her face had been a mask of vexation for weeks. 

Morgana huffed and put down the report she was reading from the troops stationed in Scotland. “Exactly how long are you going to do that?”

Morgause stopped pacing, but her finger continued to tap. “We should not be here,” she said for the third time that day. “Our place right now is in Birmingham.”

Patiently, Morgana sat back in her chair. “You worry too much. The city will be ours in no time.”

“You’ve been saying that for weeks. The sacking of the city is taking longer than we’d hoped, something that could be resolved by our being there. Last we heard, Darby’s army was pushing us back. Now that the other provinces have sent soldiers to the Midland’s aid, they are becoming victorious. Once Arthur’s troops are at full force, it will prove even more difficult to capture the city. We are giving Arthur all he needs to defeat us: time.”

Morgana gritted her teeth. “Arthur is precisely the reason we must remain in York.”

What did she care if they gained Birmingham? She could claim the city any time she wished with her weapon. Now, she had to hold onto her own capital.

“Should Arthur’s followers attempt a rebellion—.”

Morgause interrupted with a scoff. “What followers? All we have are rumours. Even if they are true, who is there to rebel? The penniless farmers and slaves? They aren’t a threat. The provinces are, which is why we must crush them now that they have unified under Arthur’s banner.” 

“Don’t misjudge his influence,” said Morgana. “He will try to take our territories from under our noses if we aren’t vigilant.”

“You are letting your hatred of him rule you,” Morgause snipped. Then, her brow creased thoughtfully. “Or perhaps it is your fear of Emrys clouding your judgment.”

Morgana’s nails dug into the armrests on her chair. Morgause didn’t understand her reservations. She was right to be afraid of Emrys. “I’ve underestimated him before,” she hissed. On it’s own accord, her palm rested on the place where Arthur’s blade had pierced through her. There was no scar, and no pain. But still, she felt it. 

Morgause put her hands flat on the desk and leaned in towards Morgana. “I do not. I know his power,” she said plainly. “We must have it on our side, as I have told you. His magic is too great to waste. It must be bent to our will. We have Emrys in the palm of our hands already, and we know his weakness: his king. Soon, we will take from him all hope he has, and he will be ours. But we must be patient. Our attention in the meantime must be focused on gaining the provinces. Leave keeping the slaves in line to Cenred. We have more pressing matters.”

Deep down, Morgana knew she was right. Perhaps it was because the reports coming from Scotland were favourable ones, but she was inclined to let Morgause talk her into returning to Birmingham. She sighed, about to agree.

Before she got the chance, a frenzy of shouts arose from the training pitch. Both women’s necks swivelled towards the window. Outside, a woman in a servant’s uniform had walked in front of the targets. She wore a black vest that glinted with metal and was snaked with wires. One wire arched to the ground and came up again to a device held in her fist.

The line of soldiers had their guns pointed at her, but they did not dare fire and set off the bomb.

Morgana jumped from her chair and rushed to the window to get a better view. The drill sergeant was fruitlessly demanding the bomber to stand down.

Morgana’s breath caught. This was Arthur’s doing. She knew it immediately.

She tore from the room, Morgause on her heels. Malcolm had been posted outside the door. He called for her when she flew past him, and at once he followed. She did not stop until she reached the top of the stone entrance stairs outside. The training pitch stretched out before her, and the shouts from the soldiers were more decipherable now that the window didn’t muffle them.

“You’re outnumbered!” the drill sergeant said. “Disarm your weapon and get on your knees!”

The bomber remained still, her face etched with determination. She wasn’t going to disarm. 

Morgana began to move forward, but Malcolm grabbed her by the arm and pulled her back. She shot him a hateful glare. “Let go of—.”

Another voice cut through the field. “I give my life,” cried the bomber, “for the victory of the Twice Crowned King!”

Morgana’s gaze snapped back at the bomber, whose eyes skewed closed, and whose thumb quickly lifted off the trigger in her fist. There was a gunshot, but much too late.

“Behind me!” Malcolm shouted. He manhandled both Morgana and Morgause behind him, and turned his back to the blast. From over his shoulder, Morgana saw an explosion of metal and fire, and sprays of blood. Reflexively, she sent her magic forward to stop any stray pieces of metal from flinging towards where they were standing. The pieces fell with a clatter to the steps.

The shouts of the soldiers had turned into agony.

She lowered her hand, and Malcolm let her step around him. The green and yellow field was painted in crimson as swaying and sprawled bodies cradled themselves, and pieces of gore lay wasted beside them. The soldiers, including the drill sergeant, that had been closer to the blast were torn apart, never to fight again. Those whom the Cup granted immortality were calling out in pain, while the others were motionless on the ground. The bomber was as scattered as the metal that had torn from her vest.

Morgana squared herself. Fists formed at her sides. She screamed, loud enough that it echoed across the field. Her eyes glowed like fire, and each target lined up for training splintered and cracked.

 

///

 

Merlin stared down at the soft, fluffy shave cream that formed globs in the sink’s basin. He turned on the water, still warm from use, and swished it clean until the last traces of scattered black hairs swirled down the drain.

He glanced up, getting his first good look at his own reflection. He looked younger without his beard and with his hair clipped shorter; and, what was even stranger, he _felt_ young. He almost didn’t recognise himself in the mirror. That clean-shaven face should have belonged to another man from another life.

He leaned in closer and inspected his chin, checking that he didn’t miss any patches of stubble. He hadn’t. His skin was smooth when he ran his fingers across it. When he patted his cheeks dry with a towel, he grinned into how soft the fabric was unobstructed.

He couldn’t wait to see the look on Arthur’s face. 

Not that he had shaved for Arthur; nor had he trimmed his hair for Arthur. Well, not _exactly_. Merlin wasn’t really certain why he’d done it. It just seemed like the right thing to do. After all, that day was a special occasion.

Flipping off the bathroom light, he went back into the bedroom, where a (magically) wrinkleless suit and tie awaited him laid out on the bed. On the way, his gaze latched onto a large metal coin with the icon of a sparrow engraved into it. It hung from the wall in a frame, surrounded by a bed of red velvet. Hanging the coin had been one of the first things Merlin had done when they moved into the manor. He’d wanted to display it in the parlour, something they never could do in their flat in London for fear of mould and decay; but Arthur wanted it in a more private setting. He never could believe that Merlin had hung on to the du Bois sigil for so long, and Merlin could never explain why he had carried it across all those miles and centuries. Maybe he just wanted a piece of Arthur to go with him.

Whatever the reason, Arthur wanted it to be just theirs to look at, not a token on display. Merlin was glad Arthur had talked him into hanging it in their bedroom. It _was_ just theirs.

Merlin turned to his suit on the bed and stopped dead in his tracks when he saw a spry but ancient man standing over it. He was holding up the tie and inspecting it with piercing gold eyes. Merlin’s expression fell, and terror sloshed inside of him. 

“Kilgharrah? What is it? What’s happened?” he worried, getting ahead of himself. However, his fear was probably well founded. He hadn’t summoned the dragon, and he’d never known Kilgharrah to swing by for social visits, especially in the weak afternoon daylight pouring through the windows. He was hardly visible without any shadows to pull from.

“Such a strange garment of this time period,” Kilgharrah mused, still holding up the tie. “Men are strange creatures, indeed, to wear a readily prepared noose around their throat.” He dropped the tie carelessly, and Merlin grunted in annoyance. It was probably wrinkled again.

But there were probably more urgent matters at hand. 

“Kilgharrah,” he urged, stepping forward. “Why are you here?” The last thing he wanted was some immediate threat. Merlin couldn’t leave Arthur’s side. The night had to go perfectly.

Finally, Kilgharrah acknowledged Merlin’s presence. He blinked directly at him in a way that made Merlin wonder, after all this time, if the dragon had X-Ray vision.

“I see you’ve made changes to your appearance. I must admit, it’s good to see your face again, Merlin,” he teased, and then vaguely gestured to the suit. “But one wonders why you’ve gone through such trouble.” 

Merlin sighed. He knew he wouldn’t get a straight answer—or, at least, a vague answer—from the dragon until he gave some answers of his own. “It’s for Arthur,” he heard himself say, even though he’d been denying it up until that point. Admitting it brought his grin back. He felt weightless. “Today’s our anniversary.” 

Kilgharrah tilted his head to the side in question. After some consideration, he said, “Today is not the anniversary of Arthur’s return." 

“No,” Merlin chuckled. “It’s _our_ anniversary. Of marriage.”

Kilgharrah narrowed his eyes, Merlin realised, in scepticism. Had he never told the dragon about their marriage? He _must_ have mentioned it.

Or maybe not.

After all, he could probably count on one hand how many appearances Kilgharrah had made in the last few centuries. And, when he did, they never really chatted. So, why were they chatting now?

“You didn’t come here to make fun of my suit, did you?” Merlin asked, trying to sound bright.

“No, I most certainly did not,” was the answer. The dragon seemed a little snippy, like he usually was when he was frustrated with Merlin—when Merlin deliberately went against Kilgharrah’s warnings. “I’ve come because the forces of destiny are being tampered with. Fate is moving off course, where it should not be.”

Merlin shook his head, all mirth suddenly dropped into a deep abyss. How could that be? He’d been acting carefully! Arthur had returned to Camelot, and he was uniting the provinces. Everything seemed to be going to plan.

He remembered his dreams of Arthur persecuting magicians. They couldn’t have really been from the Crystals. Arthur had been trying so hard to accept magic. He made sure the death camps wouldn’t reopen, and that put Merlin’s mind to rest. He’d help those with magic, not kill them like Uther had. His dreams had been only that, dreams.

Hadn’t they been?

“This disturbance has been looming since shortly after Arthur’s resurrection. Have you felt it?”

Merlin reached into himself, listening to his magic. It whispered no warnings. In fact, it bubbled happily within him. He shook his head.

“The strength of its threat is especially powerful today,” Kilgharrah warned, narrowing his eyes into slits again. “And I believe I now know why that is.”

“Tell me!” Merlin fretted. He hated the dramatic build-up. He just wished Kilgharrah would spit it out.

However, when the dragon spoke again, Merlin wished he hadn’t.

“Because it has been precisely one year since your marriage to Arthur—a union that was never meant to be.”

It felt like all the oxygen had been sucked from the room. Merlin stood in a vacuum—endless, suffocating nothingness. The words echoed through him, rattling his bones like a winter chill.

When he remembered how to speak, he bit out dangerously, “What has my _marriage_ got to do with destiny?”

“Everything,” Kilgharrah told him, like it was so simple. “You are destined to help Arthur succeed in uniting Albion. That has always been your purpose, Merlin. Arthur will rule the land. You were never destined to rule alongside him." 

“I have no intention of becoming consort,” Merlin corrected. He wouldn’t officially claim the title. The throne was Arthur’s. Merlin knew that. He didn’t want it. 

“But you are Arthur’s husband. Your intentions do not matter,” the dragon told him. “Your union is getting in the way of destiny’s plan. Arthur is meant to be king, and he is _meant_ to have his queen.”

Merlin’s fist balled tightly at his sides. He was infuriated, and had to work hard to control his laboured breathing. It audibly passed through his nose, as hot as dragon fire.

“You mean Gwen.”

Kilgharrah did not answer. He didn’t need to.

Merlin anger was quickly giving way to panic. “They’re not married anymore,” he said, but he didn’t know who he was trying to convince. Arthur and Gwen still loved each other in some way. They had been tempted back towards each other before. Maybe they still were.

It wasn’t quite jealousy burning a hole in Merlin’s chest, as much as it was bone-deep fear.

“It would be wise to let them rekindle their relationship,” the dragon advised.

And then Merlin’s panic cracked in half, and its yoke tasted a lot like sadness—bitter, desperate, lonely. His breastbone caved in.

“Why does it matter who Arthur’s married to?” Merlin yelled, blinking away hot tears. His lashes were lined, blurring his vision. The dragon swam before him like a heat wave. Dusk was growing outside, and Kilgharrah’s visage was becoming more solid.

“We—we love each other! Doesn’t that count for anything?” Merlin swallowed hard, fighting back his emotion. “God, does destiny have to control _everything_ we do?” Couldn’t they just have this? This one thing? It wasn’t much to ask for. Arthur would still become king. Magic would still reign. Albion would be united. Surely, this _one_ thing wasn’t so important in the grand design! 

No. Merlin’s wouldn’t lose Arthur. They were having their anniversary. The night had to be perfect. It was their first anniversary.

And maybe their last.

“Destiny can fuck right off!”

Kilgharrah’s expression remained even in the face of Merlin’s anger. “Merlin,” he said, sounding almost disappointed. “When Arthur returned, you promised you would heed my warnings this time. Remember that promise. There are those that will seek to exploit your love for Arthur. Then, there is no telling what will happen. Destiny has not planned it. This complication—.”

Merlin scoffed thickly, “ _Marriage_!”

“—could change a great many things that are to come.”

_Change_. Was that it, then? The change that had been foretold? The one Merlin had been warned of time and time again? 

“Since when is love a weakness?” he asked, the words wet. He wouldn’t accept it.

“For others, it is not. But, where you and Arthur are concerned, you should begin to see it as one,” said Kilgharrah. “Morgana certainly will.”

Merlin wanted to argue. He wanted to scream until the walls fell down around him. He was too tired to do either. He turned away. Heartbreak hollowed out his insides. 

Hadn’t he given enough? What more did destiny want from him? It was all consuming. It had his life, his magic, his sense of self, his purpose. And now it wanted his beating heart, too.

Almost sympathetically, Kilgharrah said, “Do not ruin all you’ve worked so hard to achieve for such selfish means, Merlin.”

Merlin closed his eyes, letting a shuddering breath balloon his chest. It was the only thing he felt inside of him.

“Selfish,” he whispered. He hated the word so very deeply, because he believed it. He decided to focus that hatred on Kilgharrah. He didn’t care if he was just the messenger.

However, when he glared in Kilgharrah’s direction, the dragon was gone.

Without an outlet, the anger festered and revealed its true nature. Tears formed in his eyes.

And then Arthur was coming down the hall.   Merlin felt his presence, and kicked himself for being too distracted to notice it in the manor before. His heart jumped, and he swatted away the moisture on his cheeks. He couldn’t let Arthur see them.

There were footsteps, which soon paused at the door.

“Ah, there you are.”

Arthur was early—or no, he wasn’t. He was in a meeting with Simmons and Darby after training, and it was always supposed to end at this time. He had told Merlin not to be late for dinner, but he was. He should have been dressed and ready. He should have been happy.

“I thought we might—.”

Merlin spun around, hoping his face wasn’t too red, and hoping Arthur couldn’t read the emotion in him.

However, when Arthur blanched, his gaze was on the lower half of Merlin’s face.

“You _shaved_?” he gaped, and the corners of his lips turned upwards with ecstatic humour. He pushed in closer to Merlin and cupped both palms to his skin. They were warm and firm, and Merlin was probably stone cold to the touch. Arthur was too distracted to notice.

In all the commotion, Merlin had forgotten that he’d shaved. 

Arthur gave his cheek a gentle slap and let his hands fall. “It should be our anniversary more often.”

Merlin’s insides twisted. “Yeah,” he agreed shakily. He pushed it down. “Don’t get used to it.”

“I’d never dream of it,” Arthur joked, not knowing how morbid it really was. He moved towards the bathroom and called over his shoulder, “Now, get dressed—or undressed. Depending on how hungry for dinner you are.”

Merlin tensed his jaw down at his suit. He wasn’t hungry at all.

Maybe he really could hang himself with that tie.

 

///

 

Gwen considered leaving the container of food on Lancelot’s doorstep and going home. She’d left the meal she’d brought for Elyan outside of his door. Why was she waiting for Lancelot?

She was tired, after all. She’d spent all day in the local soup kitchen with a team of volunteers, making meals for the refugees that had come to Winchester without any means to feed themselves, speaking with the people about their needs and concerns, and washing up after the dinner was over. Usually, there weren’t any leftovers to spare, but that night there was, which Gwen took as a good sign. She decided to bring some of it to Elyan, who always ate poorly after a day of training and was in dire need of a fresh meal, and Lancelot, simply because she thought he might be hungry, too.

Although, it seemed their day of training was running overtime, and her nerves were getting the better of her. Or maybe training had ended hours ago. Maybe Lancelot had gone elsewhere for dinner. She certainly didn’t want him to come home to find her hovering outside his door with a container of unwanted food.

She turned, resolving to go home after all, when she caught sight of Lancelot at the bottom of the stoop. She gasped, nearly dropping the container as she clutched her chest. 

“How long have you been standing there?” she demanded.

He had a soft look about him. He stared up at her with the most subdued of smiles and sparkling eyes. “I could ask you the same,” he said, walking up the steps.

She chewed on her lower lip, not wanting to answer the question. She looked at him up and down. He seemed tired. His shoulders sagged under overworked muscles, and his eyes were bruised with a need for sleep. His hairline still glistened with the remnants of his labour. A meal would definitely give him his energy back, Gwen thought, and she remembered the container in her hands.

“Oh! I brought this for you!”

He smiled down at the container and took it from her gently. His face lit up at the prospect of food. “It smells delicious. Another day of volunteering?”

Gwen nodded. “It’s no bad thing to help our people. Training for war is your way of doing so, but there are other battles happening here.”

“More important ones, I’m sure.” He was giving her that look again, like he couldn’t believe she was solid. “You’ll solve hunger and poverty singlehandedly, Gwen. I have no doubt.”

She was at a loss for words. Of course, he was wrong. She did what she could to help, and hoped it took strides towards a better future, but she wasn’t a miracle-worker. But, when she looked back at him and saw herself reflected in the darks of his eyes, she knew he believed his words. He’d always had such faith in her. It was the kindest thing anyone had ever done for her.

She had no words for it, only actions.

Gwen leaned in quickly and kissed him before she lost her nerve. At first, Lancelot seemed timid, as though holding himself back, asking himself if he should kiss her, too. She was glad when he decided to do so. She deepened the kiss and placed her hands on his cheeks. He leaned down so she wouldn’t have to stand on her toes. 

How many times had she touched her lips, remembering the press of his? She’d dreamt of the way her heart would flutter and her mind would buzz. When he kissed her, she did not feel silence within her, but she did feel peace. There was no emotion that could describe it, no word in her lexicon. It was a mystery she never wished to solve.

Without him, she recalled the depth of the sensation well, but thought she’d never feel it again. She’d never give it up again now that she had it. She’d spend the rest of her life chasing it.

When the kiss broke, she lingered close, breathing him in. She knew he’d felt it, too. His breaths were coming out in soft laughter, and a smile was stretching his face. She wished to have him look at her like that forever.

“Is there enough food in here for two?” he asked.

She’d nearly forgotten about the container. She looked down at her. Her hand slipped from his face to rest on his chest.

“To a person with a normal appetite, yes. But I’ve seen you eat before,” she chortled, shaking her head so that her curls bounced gently about her.

Humoured, he answered, “Then, I will go hungry. Have dinner with me.” He indicated the door with a miniscule nod.

Gwen accepted the invitation, and she was glad she did.

More than that, for the first time since her return, she was truly content.

 

///

 

Mordred ran through the corridors towards the throne room, which had been refurbished from Cyrus’ former library. The pitch outside the building was buzzing with agonized moans and resigned murmurings. Medics were wheeling gurneys towards the trucks to bring to the infirmary. Those who hadn't been touched by the Cup's magic were put into body bags.

Morgana hadn't been on the field, but no one could tell him where she was. His heart hammered from exertion and fear as he burst into the throne room. He breathed. Both Morgana and Morgause were there, but neither of them heard him enter.

Morgana was in a rage, her eyes wild with anger. “Do you see now what lengths he will go to in order to destroy us?”

Morgause remained calm. She rationalised, “Arthur would never send a citizen on a suicide mission. The bomber must have acted alone.”

“No. The bomber was not alone. Belief in Arthur is spreading like a disease. There will be more,” Morgana said. “This was Arthur’s doing.” She bared her teeth. “Arthur—and the root of all our pain. This was Emrys.”

“Morgana,” Mordred said, tentative in his approach. Both women’s eyes fixed on him. Neither of their gazes turned gold, but they burned and bubbled against his skin. Morgana's eyes softened. He was glad. Her fury, when without an outlet, was a destructive thing. In their previous life, he often wondered if it would be her downfall. In the end, it had been grief.

He knew now that her fury would give her strength. However, he needed to direct it somewhere useful.

“I agree with the queen,” he said. “But Morgause is right about one thing: Arthur would never put another’s life on the line in this way. It’s likely he doesn't even know about the attack. Someone else must have planned it.”

“Emrys,” Morgana seethed again.

“Nonsense,” Morgause dismissed. “This was the work of a fanatic, nothing more.” 

Secretly, Mordred knew Morgause was right, but Morgana remained unconvinced. She wanted Merlin to be behind this. Perhaps he hadn’t been the direct cause. Merlin may have not sent the bomber but, according to Mordred, Merlin was still to blame. Merlin had made Arthur king once, and he'd do it again. For as long as Mordred could remember, Merlin had orchestrated all their suffering for Arthur's gain. If Arthur had followers, it was Merlin’s doing.

Mordred would be his puppet no more.

“We don't know that,” Mordred argued. “But we all know Emrys would do anything to defeat us. We can’t rule out his involvement.”

Morgana looked like a dog with a bone. Morgause, however, saw right through Mordred. He felt naked under her unrelenting stare. He pointedly did not focus on it. He didn't need Morgause’s ear, anyway; only Morgana’s.

“We’ve known for a long time that the key to our success lies with him,” said Mordred. “You said it yourself once, without Emrys, Arthur is nothing. We must focus our efforts on defeating him.” They should have been looking for a way to kill Merlin long ago. Mordred didn’t even know why the matter was in dispute. They’d find magic for their weapon elsewhere. They’d been successful in doing so thus far.

“Sister—,” Morgause began, her tone etched with dispute. Morgana held up her palm to silence her.

She pondered, and then a smirk purred across her lips.

“He’s right,” she said. Mordred was relieved. He’d make plans immediately. But apparently, Morgana wasn't finished.

“We’ve been focusing on the wrong issue. We can claim as much land as we desire, but as long as Emrys is at Arthur's side, we don't stand a chance against them. Emrys must be ours; only then will our weapon have the power to take everything that is rightfully ours.” 

Every word gave Mordred a growing sense of dread. “Morgana, listen to yourself. He is our enemy. We have to kill him.”

“Kill him?” Morgause repeated, her tone already swollen with her triumph. “How do you expect us to do that? Attempting to kill him will only lead to our destruction. Our course is simple. We must imprison him and take his magic for our gain." 

She was a high priestess. She should have known better than to think such things possible. A magician could be robbed of his magic, but the power could not then be transferred to another for their own use, not unless it was given willingly. If it were stolen, it would return to the fabric of the earth. The Old Religion would reclaim it.

Morgana had tried once to strip Merlin's magic, and it had proven unsuccessful. He was too much a part of the Old Religion. It flowed through him as though he were a growing tree or swimming stream. He was its child.

To think they could take it from him again was foolish. To think they could use it for themselves was madness.

Merlin was better off dead. Mordred no longer had the means to kill him, but Arthur did. They needed to either turn Arthur against him for good, or rob Arthur of his sword.

There was a third option, if only he still possessed the sword he’s slain Arthur with. It appeared to be lost, but then again, so did the Cup of Life until he’d found it once more. Perhaps killing Merlin wouldn’t be as impossible as Morgause suggested. 

“You know as well as I do that's a waste of time,” Mordred said. 

Morgause snipped, “You should be ashamed of your lack of faith in the queen's power. I’m growing tired of your insolence.” 

Mordred seethed. “It was my magic that brought you and the queen back into this world.”

“That does not mean you have power over us.” 

“Enough!” Morgana commanded before Mordred could speak again. “My mind is made up. We will not kill Emrys. I have bigger plans for him, one that will bring Arthur to his knees and will make us kings and queens of this world for good. We will usher in a new era of magic—the four of us.”

“Four?” Mordred and Morgause said at the same time. They shared a wild look, finally on the same page. At least Morgause only wanted to use Merlin, not join forces with him.

“Morgana, you can't be serious?”

She had gone mad. There was nothing else to it. She had let her need for revenge consume her. She wasn't seeing sense. Mordred had to make her see sense. 

“He will never join us! His loyalty is to Arthur.”

“Perhaps it is now,” Morgana said coolly. “But we can change that.”

No. They couldn't. They could needle with his imagination all they wished. They could drive him out of his mind. But he'd never turn against Arthur. To Merlin, Arthur was a basic need, as strong as food or sunlight. Arthur was written on his soul.

“What makes you think this, sister?” Morgause asked tentatively. She may have been sceptical, but Mordred could see her salivating at the promise of power. If she believed there was a chance of Merlin standing with them, she would convince Morgana is was the right path.

“I was visited by the Cailleach not long ago,” Morgana told them. “She had a message for me. The forces of destiny have been tampered with. The future of the Once and Future King is no longer certain. Emrys’ future isn’t certain.” 

Morgause turned away, appearing to ponder the implications. “She would not have come to you with this opportunity had our success not been sure,” she thought aloud.

_A snake_ , Mordred thought. Morgause was a snake, willing to squeeze the life from anything that might make her stronger, unaware of the hawk spotting her as prey. He wouldn't allow Morgana to get swallowed whole with her.

“That doesn't mean anything!” he exclaimed. “It’s only more uncertainties! Morgana, our troops have been doing well. If we continue on this path—.”

“Silence,” Morgause ordered. “You know nothing of what this means. You know nothing of the forces of destiny.”

Perhaps she had read the prophecies and studied destiny since her youth, trapped away in her ivory tower with the high priestesses and their spell books, but she was the one who knew nothing of destiny. She was only on its peripherals, a means to its end. Mordred had been its chess piece. It had marked him since his birth. It had killed him, and twisted him into something he sometimes didn't recognise. 

“I know more about it than you,” he asserted.

“Mordred.” Morgana stepped forward, her voice soft and expression sweet, understanding his hurt. “I know you wish for vengeance against Emrys and Arthur. I know you wish to see them suffer. But you must look towards what we are to achieve. I believe this is how we will meet our goals. I need you to trust me. Please.”

She was begging him to stand at he side. Silently, he begged her to reconsider.

“I cannot watch him destroy you again,” he told her, his anger against Morgause turning into sadness. His years without Morgana had been the loneliest of his life. He could not lose her again. She was his family, his future, his home. What was he without her?

Her face twisted. “Then, help me break him.”

 

///

 

Dinner was delicious. Or, at least, it looked delicious. Merlin didn’t know. He barely had the stomach for it. He twirled the spaghetti around with his fork, watching as the long noodles slid beneath each other and as the red sauce left a thin film on the white china. Agnes and her staff must have worked on the sauce all day.

The dining room, too, was pristine. There were at least three candles on every flat surface, their golden lights dancing and ebbing to cast soft shadows on the walls. The wine in Merlin’s glass tasted the same as every other wine he’d ever had, but it was supposedly very good. It was from a vineyard in Exeter. Merlin hadn’t the palate for it. All it was to him was bitter and dry, but perhaps that was just the lingering taste in his mouth from his conversation with Kilgharrah.

Regardless, the wine was the only thing he’d touched. His glass had been refilled at least four times, but he wasn’t feeling very light at all. He was heavy. Far too heavy.

Arthur had put so much thought into the evening. Merlin was ruining it by brooding. 

Because of it, Arthur was carrying most of the conversation. He was telling Merlin about the meeting he’d had that day with Simmons and Darby. Apparently, it was about Scotland.

The War had been devastating to all of Britain and its society, but the Scots got the worst of it. When the warhead was dropped on Clyde Naval Base, it set off a chain reaction to a quarter of the nuclear weapons housed at the base. Scotland never recovered. Most of the central regions were still uninhabitable, and it was said nothing so much as a root could grow there.

The Highlands and the North Country had been divided for some time after the War, making it easy for the Neos to claim land in Scotland’s southern regions. The clans that had formed were too busy fighting amongst themselves to pay the Neos much mind. And then, slowly, the clans began to unite and push the Neos out. It was a war that still raged, and one the Scots were bound to lose with Morgana at the helm of the Neo’s forces.

“Darby is an ally to the General of the Scots, a man by the name of Rosewood,” Arthur was explaining and he finished chewing. He reached across the table, wine bottle in hand, and sloshed the rest into Merlin’s glass.

“I believe a talk with the General could be beneficial for both sides,” he went on as Merlin stared off into the burning wick of the candle to his left. The colour in the centre of the flame shifted from blue to purple and back again.

This couldn’t be their only anniversary dinner. They couldn’t only last a year.

“If the Scots unite with our forces, we would have the Neo Territory surrounded on all sides. Their troops are already divided between both fronts, but Darby thinks we can divide them even more with Rosewood’s assistance. Our armies would aid each other against Neo attacks.”

They were happy, weren’t they? Arthur loved him, didn’t he?

But did he love him enough to stay? Did he love Gwen more? Destiny had been unavoidable so far. Merlin learned long ago not to fight it. But he wanted to; he really did.

Would Arthur be happier with Gwen?

“If this Rosewood really did unite the clans together, perhaps he shares our vision of peace. I believe he will be a formidable ally.”

What consequences could there possibly be because of their marriage, anyway? Would the kingdom fall the ruin if Gwen didn’t rule at Arthur’s side? Would Arthur even be crowned king, or would something horrible happen that destiny hadn’t intended? Would Arthur turn against magic, against Merlin, like in the Crystals’ prophecy?

Could Arthur fail again?

Could Merlin have prevented it, if only he got up from the table and walked away? If only Gwen took his place? 

Would that be better for Arthur? For the kingdom? Would it save Arthur’s life?

“If he agrees, we’ll have the whole of Britain united against Morgana.” Arthur sighed heavily. “Even then, I’m not sure we’d be a match for her weapon. But we must try.”

Why couldn’t they just be left alone? Was destiny _really_ so against Merlin’s happiness? 

“Merlin?”

Merlin’s eyes snapped back to Arthur, who was giving him an incredulous, slightly perturbed look. He must have called Merlin’s name at least twice before he got his attention. 

“Am I boring you?”

“No, I’m listening,” Merlin assured him, even though it was only half-true. He thought he’d heard enough of what Arthur said, and did his best to quickly process a meaning. He said, “An alliance with Rosewood is something to consider, but the Scots stay in Scotland. We’d have to go to them to strike a deal. That means travelling through the entirety of the Neo Territory, not to mention the Wastelands.”

Perhaps, if they stayed along the west, far from York, as they travelled through England, they could avoid the majority of Morgana’s troops. However, they would have to trek back to the east once they reached the Wastelands to avoid the epicentre of the blast site, unless they wanted to die of radioactive toxins. The trip could take days, even with cars.

Arthur seemed to be considering something, but it didn’t appear to be Merlin’s words. He was glancing Merlin up and down, studying him curiously. “We’ll do what we must for the good of the kingdom,” he said slowly.

Merlin couldn’t hold his gaze anymore. “Yeah,” he agreed under his breath.

The good of the kingdom. The good of Arthur—for his success, and protection. Merlin would do what he must. Even if that meant they couldn’t be together. 

What choice had he?

Arthur sat back in his chair, still surveying Merlin. “You’ve been very quiet this evening. Something bothering you, Merlin?” 

Merlin shook his head. “I’m just tired,” he told his lap. 

“No, you’re not.” There was concern in his voice, well hidden but Merlin still heard it. “Something’s the matter. Tell me.”

Merlin bit the inside of his cheek, wondering if he should lie. Arthur shouldn’t have to worry about such things when he had Morgana and the Neos to deal with. Arthur’s job was the practical world; it was Merlin’s job to fret over the metaphysical. 

But he couldn’t lie. Not about this. He couldn’t bear leaving Arthur. He didn’t have it in him. If he were lucky, Arthur would side with destiny and leave Merlin instead. That, at least, Merlin could deal with. After all, he’d been anticipating it in some way. It might even be a relief.

Bracing himself for the inevitable, Merlin began, “I spoke with Kilgharrah earlier.” 

Arthur sat up straight again, alert. “You summoned him?”

“No. He came to me.”

“Why?” Arthur sounded as worried as Merlin had been when he’d seen Kilgharrah. He thought there was a threat. Except, the threat was Merlin.

“He said something—about us. Our marriage.” Merlin’s gut was squirming. He tried so hard to meet Arthur’s eyes, but they were petrified in the unknown. “He said . . . Destiny never intended for us to get married.”

As Merlin felt like he couldn’t breathe, Arthur exhaled in relief and sank back into his chair. “Is that all?” he said dismissively.

Merlin scoffed. Of course, Arthur wouldn’t understand the gravity of the situation.

“There could be unforeseen consequences.” 

“As there always are in life.” 

“Not like this.” Merlin shook his head, suddenly convinced that he would single-handedly kill Arthur and destroy all of Britain if they remained married. “I thought I could outsmart destiny before, and look what happened. It has a plan, Arthur. Kilgharrah knows that. He thinks our being together is dangerous. He thinks it’ll weaken us.”

And now, Arthur couldn’t look him full in the face. He was staring down at the table, shaking his head, and shrugging petulantly. “He’s wrong,” he said, like he knew so much better.

“You _can’t_ know that!” Merlin pleaded. He just wanted Arthur to break up with him. He was panicking, and not thinking clearly—and yet, he felt as though he’d just had a revelation. It would be safer for everyone if they were apart. “Maybe it’s better if—.”

“If _what_ , Merlin?” Arthur shot back, his tone warning explosions and devastation. Every line on his face was taut, and every curve had hardened. “I don’t care what he says, and I don’t care what destiny thinks it wants. If anyone objects to our personal affairs, they’d better have the gall the tell _me_ to my face.” 

His body eased some, but the same determination lit fires in his gaze. 

“It will be the last thing they ever say.” 

Tears were lining Merlin’s lashes again. Why did Arthur have to make this so hard? He breathed out Arthur’s name. It sounded like a prayer—small and dying, just wanting to be put out of its misery.

“No.”

Suddenly, Arthur’s chair scraped against the floor. Merlin’s pulse jumped back into life. His gaze bolted up fearfully. Now that Arthur truly was leaving, Merlin didn’t want him to. He wanted Arthur to stay. That’s all he ever wanted.

But Arthur wasn’t going anywhere. He walked around the table and knelt beside Merlin, making sure that he would always have Merlin’s gaze, even should he try to avert it to his lap.

“No,” he said again, and wrapped his hand around Merlin’s wrist.

“We’ve given enough,” he promised, stressing every syllable in hopes of getting it through Merlin’s head. “They can’t have this. It doesn’t belong to them.”

Merlin didn’t know who _they_ were, but he was pretty sure they’d branded him. Most days, he felt like a counterweight, and his only purpose was to keep his other half upright. He was a tool, an empty shell waiting to be filled. Nothing more.

When had he ever been his own person?

“I don’t know what _destiny_ intends,” said Arthur. “I don’t even know if I believe in destiny. But, if I know one thing, it’s that we’re stronger together. Merlin, you told me once you didn’t trust your own heart.” He brought Merlin’s hand up, and rested it on his chest. At once, Merlin felt it, physically pounding against Arthur breastbone; and then his magic curled in deeper to meet it. He understood for the first time that Arthur was just as terrified by losing Merlin as Merlin was of losing him.

“Trust _mine_.” 

How could Arthur just _choose_? Destiny didn’t give options. It didn’t let you choose. It picked for you, thousands of years before you were even born. Merlin never had a choice.

And yet, he was choosing. He chose Arthur. He’d choose Arthur every time.

“God, I love you,” said Merlin as all his senses were overwhelmed with the emotion. It was too much for him to keep in. The words had been more powerful than any spell that had ever fallen from his lips. 

And they didn’t make him feel weak. Quite the opposite. For the first time, he felt as though he could do anything, so long as Arthur was with him.

He loved Arthur. He didn’t care if every star fell from the sky because of it. It didn’t even matter if Arthur loved him back. He couldn’t possibly, not to the extent of Merlin’s love. And that was fine. Loving Arthur was the best, most important thing he’d ever done.

How could destiny not expect Merlin to love Arthur?

Destiny—for all the plans it made for them, for all its omniscience and wisdom—never saw either of them coming.

Arthur stood up, but leaned over Merlin to stay at eye level. He cradled Merlin’s face in both palms and took him into a kiss. Merlin kissed back, longingly, hopefully, possessively.

Arthur’s hands pet Merlin’s cheeks, enjoying the smoothness of the skin beneath them.

 

///

 

Flashes. A campsite in the middle of the forest, fires blazing and tents forming a city in the trees. Arthur, a crown on his head and a flowing red cape behind him. A silver bullet rolled between two fingers and held up to the light. A red and gold dragon beating its wings in flight.

Flashes. Morgana falling into Merlin’s arms, Arthur’s sword still in her gut. A pulsing white hot light. Two blue pills shaken into a palm from their container. An ancient oak tree.

A steady image came into focus, and the others were forgotten.

Mordred was on his back, his eyes wide open and unseeing, his body broken, his limbs jutting out unnaturally. The ghost of a grin still painted his lips. Fresh crimson slowly trickled from his nose.

The image changed to something new. Arthur crumpled on the cement atop an expansive, flat roof. He might have been asleep. He could have been, if not for his awkward position. He was folded on his side, one arm twisted backwards beneath him, head lolling to the cement.

He might have been asleep. He might not ever wake up.

The sun was shining down on springtime.

More flashes. Merlin couldn’t latch onto a single one.

He woke up with wet cheeks. Monday morning was pouring through the windows, and the world outside looked sharp with frigidness. Winter was upon them. 

Merlin blinked as his eyes stung against the light. He didn’t feel anyone besides him in bed, no buzzing skin in close proximity. The emptiness startled him, causing him to whip around. All he saw were messy sheets. He couldn’t process why. His thoughts were broken things, always getting ahead of themselves and tripping over the next.

“About time. I _did_ try to wake you,” said a voice across the room. Merlin gasped in surprise upon hearing it, until he recognised it as Arthur’s.

Arthur was standing in the bathroom door, buttoning up his shirt and looking fully alive. 

“You slept through the alarm,” he was saying. Merlin didn’t answer, and Arthur huffed. “Have you gone deaf? Get up. We’re supposed to be in the Great Hall in fifteen minutes.” 

He disappeared back into the bathroom. 

Merlin dragged his hand down his face, partly to wake himself up and partly to wipe the tears from his skin. All he saw behind his eyelids was Arthur’s body. The image was burned into the forefront of his mind. 

His heart couldn’t beat. He couldn’t breathe. But what was the point of either?

“Merlin, get your lazy backside out of bed!”

He swatted more tears from his face. He couldn’t let Arthur see.

He squared himself. Arthur never had to know.

He’d been given the knowledge of Arthur’s death the first time, and he had failed to stop it. He wouldn’t again. Not even if Mordred had to live forever.


	5. Chapter 5

Warfare had changed quite a lot since the days of the five kingdoms. It was no longer a clash of swords and shields on a field or a rain of arrows from a citadel’s tower. Many attacks were unannounced, sudden, stealthy. They called it guerrilla warfare. Mordred thought it hadn’t much honour to it.

Surely, Arthur would have thought so, too. He always had been a soldier who wished to meet his opponent on fair ground, to look into the eyes of the man he was killing. 

Throughout the last six months, Mordred had learned how wrong he was.

It just went to show that Arthur wasn’t the man Mordred had originally thought he was. Arthur’s troops employed such tactics. Three months prior, a Neo camp was attacked in Hereford. Weeks later, another town was taken back from Morgana’s control. The raids went on from there. Sometimes, the Neos came out victorious; many times, they were defeated. 

Mordred thought that fact unacceptable. Three-quarters of their army had a drop of blood in the Cup of Life. They could not die. Though, weapons had changed quite a bit since the old days, too. They were much more deadly. Blasts from grenades and storms of bullets did not kill the immortal soldiers, but certainly left them in the infirmary wishing they were dead.

Mordred was keeping score, and at the moment it felt like Arthur was winning.

It was a day in late May when Mordred fully realised they had to adapt to this world’s new ways of war. The people of Britain had been advised to stay indoors due to the quality of the air. The winds were coming from the west, sweeping across the ocean from America, and breaking up the lingering dust cloud from the War. Some of it had been pushed back to Britain, just enough to turn the air frigid and cause flurries of snow to persist throughout the days. 

The experts called this weather irregular, and did not know what was causing the dust cloud to suddenly disperse. Morgause said it was the Old Religion taking claim on the Earth. She said it boded well for the world they were to build.

At the moment, Mordred disagreed.

Arthur’s troops took advantage of the silence. Four days ago, they began their assault on Gloucester. By the time Mordred got to the city, armoured vehicles and half a dozen tanks rolled throughout the streets. The Neos were pushed back to the north of the city. If they were driven out, Arthur would have claim to Anglia’s capital. After their defeat in Birmingham, Mordred could not lose another province. 

But the attention of Arthur’s men wasn’t solely on defeating the Neo troops stationed in Gloucester. They were tasked with getting the civilians out of harm’s way. Mordred knew that would be the case before he even arrived at the city. Arthur would never put innocent people into the crossfire. He would order his troops out of their way to ensure the people were safe.

It was the reason he’d marched his knights to Camlann. It had been his downfall. Mordred would exploit that weakness again.

He stood on the sixth floor of a musty flat building, looking out the curtained window at the battle on the streets below. Now, it looked like the wars he was used to fighting in, except some of the weapons were different. Two forces broke against each other with swords and crossbows, guns and bullets. A building had crumbled under an explosive a few blocks away. Horses trampled over bodies and created some more; jeeps and rovers skidded along to help the injured and provide back up. The floor under Mordred’s feet rumbled with the chaos of it all.

He’d spotted Leon and Elyan in the throng. They’d been in Glocester for as long as he had, as far as he could tell. Perhaps they had even arrived before him; perhaps they had led the initial attack. He looked across the way, up at the roof of the opposite building. A figure was laid down at the edge with his eyes over a rifle. The sniper was waiting for a clear shot of one of the knights. 

Two more snipers were positioned on the block, one a few buildings down and the last in a window a couple of floors above Mordred’s head. Their weapons were trained on the entrances to the flat building. They were under orders to open fire at any enemy troops attempting to get in.

Mordred looked behind him at the reason for that.

Nearly two-dozen civilians were cowering on the dusty floor of the fitted kitchen. They clung to each other—their husbands and wives, their brothers and sisters, their mothers and fathers, their children. The smaller ones were silently crying. The previous day, the adults had tried to negotiate or escape; that day, they remained silent, their hopes crushed.

Two other Neo soldiers were in the small flat. Their guns were out as incentive for the prisoners to keep quiet.

Leon and Elyan knew there were hostages in this building. It was why the fight had brought them there.

A rover suddenly whipped around a corner and tore down the street. People jumped out of its path while others rushed towards it. The brakes shrieked as it came to a halt a few doors down from the building Mordred was in.

Both of the rover’s back doors and the front passenger door flew open. Mordred immediately recognised the figures springing out. Gwaine, Lancelot, and Percival came from the back. From the front, the weak spring sun instantly lit up a head of gold. It was a shock against the white snow and subdued grey the clouds cast over the world like a fog.

Arthur’s sword was in his hand. He called out orders to his men and the soldiers around him. They flocked to do what they were told. A Neo soldier came upon him. Arthur’s sword ripped through the man’s gut, and turned him to ash that immediately scattered as though he’d never existed at all. A few of the Neo soldiers dispersed back towards the gun blasts and the throng, as it was either that or face Arthur. Was it any wonder they chose the bullets?

Mordred didn’t realise he was smiling until one of the men behind him said, “Sir? What is it?”

He caught his own grin in the window’s transparent reflection. “Arthur is here.”

He was aware of the shift in the air. His men may as well have audibly gulped in fear. The prisoners let out sobs or breaths of relief. Such was the reputation Arthur had. It was the exact same reputation he’d had in the five kingdoms. His name spread through the land like a plague, or like a cure. His name was whispered in dread or in love. All who heard of him thought him their destruction or their salvation.

It was the same reputation Morgana had.

“Arthur?” one of the soldiers said, his voice wavering before he cleared it. “Here?”

Mordred didn’t answer. His eyes were fixed on Arthur. He had hoped he’d show his face. Mordred realised he was gripping the hilt of his sword on his hip. 

“Shouldn’t you call the queen to come from York, sir?” the second soldier asked. “She can use the bomb.” 

Mordred’s brows pulled together, and he glared back at the men. “The queen has better things to do than fight in battle. This one is not yet over.”

He wondered if Morgana would leave York if asked, anyway. She hardly did anymore, except when she deemed it necessary. For months, she was consumed with the notation that Arthur would attack the base at any moment. Recent news of uprisings from the followers of the Twice Crowned King and terror attacks from anti-magical coalitions in the Neo Territory did not put her mind to rest.

She focused herself on Merlin, on sending him false premonitions to darken his mind against Arthur. As far as Mordred could tell, it was all for not. She would never succeed in breaking Merlin and Arthur apart. But every time he tried to reason with her, she refused to listen.

He worried for her constantly.

It was not Merlin she was driving mad, but herself.

“Yes, but—,” said the first soldier. He and the second shared a glance.

“It’s Arthur,” the second finished.

“Arthur is not the threat!” Mordred snipped. He must have sounded angry, because some of the prisoners flinched. “I will deal with him myself. Morgana’s quarry is with . . .”

He let himself trail off when he realised he hadn’t seen Arthur’s shadow. Quickly, he brought his eyes back to the streets. Arthur was getting closer to the building. His most trusted men were flanking him. No doubt, they would try to free the hostages themselves. Ever the heroes.

But one of them was missing.

Where was Merlin?

Mordred’s stomach dropped. He would not dare hope that Merlin had stayed in Winchester. He would not let Arthur go into battle alone. Mordred had to strike while he had this window of opportunity, while Merlin was nowhere in sight. 

“Tell the snipers to aim their guns at Arthur,” Mordred ordered.

There was no response from his men. It made him frantic. Couldn’t they see there was no time to lose?

“Now!” 

The first soldier scrambled for his comm. When he managed to get it to his mouth, he said into it, “Eagles move into position. Target is in the vicinity.” 

Across the way, Mordred saw the sniper’s silhouette shift slightly to point his weapon at Arthur.

“Tell them to take the shot. Take down everyone in their way. Give away their positions, if they must,” Mordred ordered. It was relayed over the walkie-talkie.

He held his breath, and the only sound he heard was his pulse pounding in his throat.

It was broken by a loud crack through the air. Mordred’s eyes widened as he realised the sound hadn’t come from a gun. A bolt of electricity had lit up the sky. It hit the sniper. There were two more booms, two perfect zigzags. All the snipers had been taken out.

“What the hell was that?” the second soldier asked.

Mordred gritted his teeth. He found Arthur again, who twirled his sword with his wrist before driving it into another soldier. This one did not turn to dust, and was dead before he hit the ground. Then, Arthur turned and looked up to one of the rooftops. Mordred followed his gaze. 

There was another figure. It stood on the edge of the building, looking back at Arthur—always, eternally, his gaze never straying. Mordred should have known.

“Merlin,” he said, and tightened his fist around his hilt.

Something else walked into view next to Merlin’s side. Mordred squinted, trying to figure out what it was. It was about the size of a large dog. When it spread its wings, Mordred’s heart skipped a beat.

It couldn’t be. 

From below, Arthur waved his hand in a signal. Merlin looked at the creature next to him and spoke a few words. The creature leapt into the air and dove. It swooped over the army and breathed fire on its enemies. Flesh became charcoal, and soldiers on both sides scattered. 

So, the dragonlord had a dragon. From the size of it, he’d had it for some time now.

They had suspected such a creature, but they never had proof.

How could Mordred not know that? How could his informants miss such a thing? Dragons were meant to be extinct. With such power, Arthur would truly win the war. 

There was no doubt now: Gloucester was lost to them. Mordred had to get to Morgana and Morgause. He had to tell them this news. They would know what to do. Until then, he had to keep Morgana far away from Merlin. He would not risk losing her to the dragon’s fire. 

“Tell the men to retreat,” Mordred whispered, still pale from shock and fear as he admitted defeat.

“Sir?” the first soldier asked. “The city will be lost.”

Down below, Arthur was rallying his troops. He held his sword above his head and twirled it. “On me!” Mordred just barely heard him bellow, and the troops charged forward. 

“It’s already lost.” Mordred tore his eyes from the window and walked to the centre of the flat. “Get the troops out of here. If we act fast, we can still secure our hold on the neighbouring towns and villages.” He didn’t actually believe that, but he had to make his men think it. In truth, Anglia was a lost cause. 

“What about the prisoners?” the second soldier asked, gesturing to the people on the floor.

Mordred had nearly forgotten about them. He looked at them, at the hope and terror fighting for power in their eyes. His eyes rested on a little boy with dark hair and light eyes clinging to his father. It struck a chord in Mordred that he could not allow.

“Leave them,” he said, trying hard not to look at the son and father. His gaze kept pulling itself towards them no matter how he fought. “They don’t matter.”

Two-dozen breaths were let out.

He turned to the door, ready to leave, when the first guard said again, “Sir? The queen’s orders were to kill all non-magician hostages.”

Mordred froze. He should have punished the man for not listening to him, but it was true—they all had their marching orders. He looked at the hostages again. Once more, they were cowering.

“The queen won’t be happy if she knows we lost the city _and_ let this lot get away,” said the soldier. 

For a moment, Mordred forgot to steel himself. The muscles in his jaw quavered as the little boy buried his face into his father’s shoulder, and the father wrapped his arms around the boy as though they were shields.

Mordred could not let himself empathize with them. That was Arthur’s weakness. He could not share Arthur’s weakness.

He decided, “Take the women and children as slaves.” 

At least, the little boy would see another day; as Mordred once had when he was boy. Morgana had protected him from death once.

“And the men?” the soldier asked.

Mordred tensed his expression. “Make the queen happy. Kill them.”

He hastened out the door. Behind him was a explosion of noise: cries and shouts, begging and calling out the names of their loved ones as they were ripped from each other’s arms. And then gunshots.

 

///

 

By the time the troops got back to Winchester, Arthur had just enough time for a quick shower at the manor before the evening’s committee meeting. He was brimming with energy as he made his way to the Great Hall, battle blood still raging in his ears and adrenaline heightening all his senses.

Somehow, he managed to remain calm and stoic when he gave the others a report of the fight. Over the past months, they’d managed to drive the Neo troops back north. They’d pushed Morgana’s army out of the Midland State before they managed to sack Birmingham, and from there they took back the smaller towns and villages. The Neo troops in Gloucester were the last large group amassed in Anglia. The only ones left were tiny squadrons hovered a hundred kilometres south of the Neo border with no hope of rapid backup should they be attacked.

In recent committee meetings, there had been talk of pushing the Neos even further north and occupying their lands. They could liberate the slave villages and farmlands around the border first, and dissolve them into the union.

The union. With every passing day, the civilians and the committee alike treated their alliance less like a military coalition and more like a united nation. It was unofficial talk, never brought into the Great Hall, but Arthur had many impromptu discussions with Simmons and the Commissioner alike about what a united Britain might one day look like. He knew each of them in turn had spoken to Darby about it, too.

Somewhere along the line, they all began to treat that fantasy as a reality. None of the leaders acted without first bringing matters to the committee when their government decisions might affect the provinces as a whole. The army itself seemed to no longer belong to one province or another, but to Britain. Resources were traded and shared more than ever between the provinces, and the border checkpoints slowly disappeared.

And now they were looking to expand their reach, to bring even more land and civilians into their realm. Arthur wondered how much further north they could push the Neos before they overextended themselves.

And then there was the question of how far north was too north. Already there was increased Neo activity in Scotland.

Morgana had taken much of the Scottish Lowlands, but those in the Highlands were still fighting against her. The Wastelands barring the Neos’ way was the Scots’ only advantage. Even then, it was only a matter of time.

Weeks ago, Darby had promised Arthur a meeting with the Scottish leader, Rosewood. It was difficult to get a message through the Neo Territory, but it seemed he’d finally been successful.

He addressed the committee, ignoring the half-eaten dinner of pork and potatoes, both products of Anglia’s agriculture scheme. “I got word that my courier arrived safely in Galloway earlier today. He’s given his message to a lieutenant in the camp. It will be in Rosewood’s hands in a few days, give or take. I have no doubt our request for a meeting will be accepted, but it may take weeks to get a reply, provided it isn’t intercepted by the Neos.”

“We can’t wait that long,” said the Commissioner. “With each passing day, the Neo forces will try to push back into our lands. We have to surround them on all sides. Once they’re trapped, we’ll be able to control their movements more easily." 

“And defeat them,” Lord Protector Owen agreed.

Arthur nodded, knowing what he had to do. “Then, we don’t wait. I will leave for Scotland in a week’s time, to arrive after your message is received.”

“Rosewood is in the Silver City, in the Highlands. To reach it, you _do_ know you’ll have to go through both Morgana’s territory and the Wastelands?” Darby told him. 

“He should take some troops,” said Simmons.

Arthur shook his head. “No. It’s better to travel in a small group. We’ll more easily elude Morgana’s patrols. I’ll take my knights. It will be safer.” He looked to Merlin, seated next to him. Merlin was staring at him eagerly. Arthur never questioned if he were coming, too. “Especially if Merlin’s with us.”

Then, his eyes fell to Wallace across the table. “Commissioner, I’d like to take your nephew, too.” At this, Wallace perked up from his slump. “We’ll need a navigator. I can think of no better.”

The Commissioner nodded his permission.

“You want _me_ on one of your knightly quests?” Wallace asked. He’d made it sound insolent and sarcastic, but his eyes shone to reveal his genuine delight.

“Please, don’t ruin it,” Merlin shot back.

“You can’t talk to a knight like that,” Wallace teased.

Arthur rolled his eyes and, before Merlin could escalate the situation, loudly interjected, “ _Thank you_ , Commissioner.”

Arthur wouldn’t admit it, but he shared Wallace’s enthusiasm. It had been too long since he and his men went on a quest. In Camelot, they would spend days, even weeks, on the road. It was usually tiring, tedious, and frequently wet with the rains, but they always cleared Arthur’s head. Oftentimes in court, he had to jump through hoops to keep both the nobles and common people happy, and decision-making seemed to drag on seemingly without any progress being made. On quests, however, Arthur had a purpose. He had a goal that he was working towards every moment.

Whenever he returned to Camelot, it was with strengthened resolve to make progress in the court’s affairs.

Besides, it was good bonding time with his knights. A bit of fresh air would do them all good. It would be like the old days. 

“How do we even know Rosewood will accept the meeting?” Brown said, and instantly Arthur’s optimism dwindled, not because he lacked faith in the plan, but simply because Brown had opened his mouth at all. It seemed all he ever did was point out flaws, but without the practicality or pragmatism of Simmon’s objections. He just enjoyed throwing a spanner into the works. 

“The Midlands and the Scots have always had a good relationship,” Darby told him politically, not letting on his own dislike, if he harboured any. “Even if it doesn’t lead to an alliance, Arthur will at least be granted a meeting. I’m confident in that. Friends often do favours for one another.” 

Brown didn’t answer. He only narrowed his eyes.

Arthur thought it a good time to end the meeting. It had been a long day, but he was still too exhilarated for sleep. He found Merlin out of the corner of his eye, and hoped he wasn’t too tired, either. Their victory that day called for a celebration—a very private one. 

“Well, if there aren’t any more matters to discuss, I think we should adjourn,” Arthur suggested, already moving to stand up.

But then, the Commissioner cleared his throat and said, “I have one other matter.”

Arthur bit down his agitation and quickly accepted it. Hopefully, it wouldn’t take very long. He sat back again as the Commissioner continued: “I think it has become clear to all of us that this is no longer just a war committee. I propose, with the support of Anglia and the Midlands, that we begin drawing up a charter to unite the provinces under a federal government—beginning with nominating a leader, of sorts, to oversee this committee and the provinces it represents.”

Arthur’s throat closed in anticipation. He looked at Gwen, who returned his gaze with the same hesitant hope. A united land, officially. It was everything they had dreamed of in Camelot. Even then, they could only achieve alliances between the kingdoms. They had spoken of centralizing the rule, but they both knew it would take many years, and so many of their alliances were shaky at best. Arthur died before they could even take the idea of it seriously, much less actualize it.

He thought it would be the same this time. The world around them was so divided, and peace was so far away. But he had to remember that his colleagues had an Old World of their own to be nostalgic about—a world where the United Kingdom was a reality, not an out-of-reach dream whispered about next to a fire.

He turned away from her, and saw Merlin’s fists tightened on his lap. Other than that, Merlin gave no sign of the hurricane no doubt brewing in his chest. Arthur knew what he was thinking, hoping, praying. He was certain Merlin’s dreams were about to be crushed. 

Across the table, Brown perked up significantly. “The leader should be one among us,” he said eagerly, and he was nearly salivating.

“I agree,” said Darby.

Brown straightened out his lapels on his jacket and squared his shoulders. “Then, I nominate the Exeter Republic to lead the provinces. No doubt, our continued prosperity speaks for itself. With our borders now open, all of Britain can benefit in the wealth.” 

“Very well,” Simmons said, smirking as though Brown had just told a joke. “I’d like to nominate another to the running. Arthur.”

Arthur’s chest caved. He hadn’t been expecting that at all. The world froze.

“Arthur?” Brown repeated, outraged.

“I second that nomination,” Darby added.

Air was suddenly coarse and difficult to swallow. Arthur looked around the table, clocking every face. He recalled just months ago, when they were strangers and distrustful of him. How far they’d come, and how far they still had to go. 

And now they wanted him to _lead_ them? Arthur had never felt such a mix of panic and flattery in his life. It was humbling.

Then, Brown scoffed, and it was frustrating.

“Do you object, Chancellor?” Simmons asked, her brows arched and her gaze cutting Brown up. Arthur commended Brown for not withering away beneath the scrutiny. If he was being totally honest, Simmons often put the fear of god into him. It was one of the many reasons he respected her, and probably the number one reason Merlin liked her. 

Brown scoffed again and attempted to sit straighter by squaring his shoulders. “I should say so! What makes Arthur fit to lead this country? No one elected him, for one.”

“Pardon me, but did anyone elect _you_ , Chancellor Brown?” Commissioner Wallace piped up. Arthur did he best to bite his tongue and keep a neutral expression, but he was grateful for the show of support.

Brown stammered, no doubt forming an argument, but Simmons cut him off before he could even start. 

“Arthur is the only one present with any past experience governing a country. Besides, it was his vision that brought us all together in the first place. We’d still be divided if not for his actions. Does that not qualify him as a leader?”

Her eyes flickered to Arthur, and they had the hint of a smile in them. Arthur accepted it with a slight nod.

A third scoff emitted from Brown. “Yes, he governed a country, so he _claims_! Even if you do believe this fairytale, it was back in the Dark Ages! Times have changed since then!” 

Arthur was tired of addressing others’ willingness to believe he was whom he said. In the grand scheme of things, the past no longer mattered. He had to look to the future, and to the people in need of his aid and protection in the present.

He ground his teeth, not angered by Brown’s disbelief but rather by his arrogance—at his self-serving desire to halt the committees’ proceedings when there was important work to be done.

“Have they?” Arthur said, trying his very hardest to keep the edge out of his tone. His eyes held enough daggers in them, anyway. “Because, when I look around this country, I see people with nothing, labouring for scraps to provide for their families—to keep a roof over their heads. I see hunger and crime and sickness. People who look to _us_ for help. All of this, with the divided provinces on the brink of a war. I know this land, and it is not a place of peace. Not yet. I don’t know if I will see if in my lifetime, but I mean to do what I can to lay a foundation for it.”

He could feel all eyes on him, and the room had suddenly fallen to silence. Next to him, Merlin’s eyes held the most weight; and his silence spoke the loudest. Arthur kept his gaze on Brown, who had somewhat shrunk further into his chair.

“There may be certain things about this world I still don’t understand, but don’t insult anyone around this table by claiming the it is so different,” he finished.

Next, he addressed the room as a whole: “If you wish for another of you to serve as head of this committee, he or she will have my full support. But, if you do accept me as your leader, rest assured that I will not rule alone. I do not seek to take your power from you, only to stand united. Together, we will find the best way to rule this land. Only then can we bring this country back to its former stability.”

He swept along the faces of his fellow committee members, clocking their expressions. Some nodded their solidarity, while others stoically mulled over the information.

After a pause, Simmons cleared her throat. “Well, then. In the spirit of a civilized society, why don’t we put it to a vote? All in favour of Arthur serving as head of this committee?”

She raised her pen into the air. Commissioner Wallace raised his palm. The rest followed. All but Brown, who gaped at the others as though they’d gone mad. However, it was clear he’d been out-voted.

“You can always decide to abstain from voting, Chancellor,” Simmons told him smartly.

He grumbled in defeat and begrudgingly raised his hand, making the vote unanimous.

Arthur felt something swell in his chest, akin to the day he was crowned Camelot’s king. However, that had been due to the circumstances of his birth. This was different. This time, people had _chosen_ him. He was simultaneously honoured to have their belief in him and terrified he’s mess up monumentally.

And there it was: the burden of ruling. It immediately settled into his bones and filled up all his empty spaces, like it had never left. He broadened his shoulders to tame it. 

At least, now, he didn’t have to learn those silly lessons he had as a young king. He knew he was not alone. The hands in the air told him that much. So did the looks on Gwen and Gaius’ faces. 

Arthur didn’t turn to see the beaming grin Merlin wasn’t even attempting to keep down. He didn’t need to.

When the hands went back down, Brown said in a huff, “Well, what do we call him, then? Head Chairperson? President? _Prime Minister_?”

Simmons’ lips quirked. “I thought that was rather obvious,” she said, and shot Arthur a devious look. “King.”

There was no objection. Arthur caught his bearings, and took a moment to catch his breath.

“If it is the wish of the committee,” he said, putting on the strongest voice he could muster. It was difficult. He sounded modest, despite what he felt inside. He _did_ feel strong. His colleague’s belief in him gave him that strength. “Then, I accept this responsibility.” 

On one side, Gwen was staring at him with stars sparkling in her eyes. And Merlin . . .

Merlin.

He could not describe the way Merlin was gazing at him, or the sensation of his magic filling the air between them, wrapping its warmth around Arthur. It was a happiness so big, it felt like calm.

After the meeting was adjourned and the leaders left for their cars back to their provinces—Darby, the Commissioner, and Owen chatting and Brown stocking away as his officers rushed after him—Arthur stayed behind to speak with Simmons, still collecting her documents. In doing so, he had to pry himself away from a still-beaming Merlin, with the certainty they’d be doing quite a lot of celebrating that night. 

She waved her advisors away until the Great Hall was empty of everyone except for them and the hanging portrait of the Round Table.

“Arthur,” she greeted happily, as though it were a surprise, as though she weren’t expecting him to thank her.

But, in truth, he wasn’t certain if he _was_ going to thank her. He realised he had no idea what to say, except perhaps, _why?_ Anything else would come out stumbling and awkward.

_Why me?_

“I wanted to . . . to thank you, for—.” Stumbling. Awkward. “For _that_.” He gestured vaguely, but she seemed to understand what he was saying.

“Of course,” she said, like she’d merely loaned him a pencil. She finished organizing her papers and held them against her chest. “Enjoy your evening,” she said with a nod, and started off. 

“Wait!” If he didn’t ask her now, he never would. And he _had_ to know.

_Why me?_  

She turned around expectedly, and again Arthur was lost for words. 

Somehow he managed to say, “Brown made some good points, you know. I can’t say I’m the most qualified to lead this committee.”

“I don’t know if _I’d_ say that,” she answered.

Arthur sometimes found it hard to get a read on her. She was a strange thing: a creature of hope in a harsh reality, a thing that had always been too old for her skin. Sometimes, he thought she was older than Merlin. 

“You believe me, then, Simmons?” he asked. “That I am who I say I am.”

She worried on her bottom lip as she mulled over the question. Arthur found himself holding his breath. His pulse jumped in anticipation. Her answered mattered to him, he realised.

When she answered, she said carefully, “This world is full of things our grandparents thought were fairytales. In my life, I’ve seen impossible things. But—.”

She paused, and shook her head like she was about to stop fully, as though she second-guessed whatever she wanted to say. However, she must have not thought it too silly, because she continued, “When I was in university, we had to read some book about you. Lawhead was the author, I think. I had to do a report on it, you know?”

Arthur’s brows shot into his fringe. He knew the assignment must have been in a literature course, not a history course. He knew the legends were taught in schools, but he’d never heard an account of it. Vainly, he wondered what Simmons’ report said about him. He hoped it was favourable.

“Do you know what they called you in these books? The lord of the summer realm,” she told him, and looked him up and down as though trying to recall the description of the character in the book, trying to fit him into its pages. 

“Honestly, I don’t know if you’re who you say you are, or if that man ever really existed; but, after the Winter we’ve had—,” she shrugged, “I think we could all do with a bit of summer.”

She bid Arthur goodnight again and, with another quick look at the Round Table, left the hall.

 

///

 

Arthur couldn’t remember what he’d been dreaming, but it had something to do with birds. There were thousands of them. The sound of their wings pounding against their bodies was audible as they swarmed the sky.

They were screaming. It echoed and came together to form its own dark entity that blocked out all else.

It wasn’t a dream.

The cawing ripped him from sleep, back into the darkness of his bedroom. Merlin woke up, too. He was panting like he’d run a race, and for a moment, as Arthur blinked into conscious thought, he imagined Merlin was the cause of the sound.

No, he couldn’t be. Merlin wasn’t causing the birds to act this way. Something else was doing that, and it was affecting Merlin just the same as the birds.

Quickly, Arthur twisted around and turned on the lamp on the nightstand. The bulb burst on. He knew it did. He saw the coils spark and the yellow glow—but that’s all it was. A glow. The night was too black to be overcome, but perhaps Arthur was just projecting. His breath tripped. Something strained and disquiet swirled within him.

He pulled out his sword from its sheath hanging off the side of the bed, and the cool metal against his palm boosted his bravado. He left Merlin behind and went to the window, where the moon outside was hidden behind a curtains and clouds. He flicked back the drapes. 

It was as though something were attacking the forest. All the animals were fleeing from it. Below, shadows bound from the tree line to seek the clearings of the hills. They moved so quickly on all fours that Arthur thought them all creatures of magic. It seemed impossible that anything mortal could run so quickly.

The things with wings took off into the sky, making the bare tree canopy quiver in a hurricane. The sky was swirling, rising and falling and undulating, breathing something black. It wasn’t the sky. It was a hoard of birds—thousands of them.

Arthur gulped and reminded himself to breathe. His hands were white-knuckling his sword. His reflection in the window was almost as terrible as the site beyond. Another image joined him, and it startled Arthur until he realised who it was. Merlin. 

“What the hell is going on?” Arthur had said it at a normal volume. It sounded as low as a whisper against the cacophony of birds.

Something flashed in Merlin’s expression, like he’d just had an epiphany. “Get under the threshold,” he suddenly demanded.

Arthur blanched. “The—?” Merlin gave him no time to finish the question. He grabbed Arthur by the arm and pulled him towards the bathroom door.

“Threshold! Now!”

Arthur didn’t have time to feel silly about standing half-in and half-out of the bathroom, huddled beneath the doorframe like it was a fortress. They reached it just in time for the floor to begin shaking beneath them.

It was soft at first, a few vibrations that rattled the drawers in the dresser and the contents of Arthur’s chest. And then it picked up. The wave of tremors caused a drumbeat through the room as gravity tried to renegotiate which way it was pressing. Arthur could feel them in his bones. His hand flew to the doorframe to keep balance. His other went to Merlin, twisting on the front of his shirt and pulling him in close for safekeeping.

He juggled his balance, trying to stay standing. It shouldn’t have been that difficult.

It took him longer than he would ever admit to realise what was going on.

The earthquake faded, slowly rolling away as it lost steam. Half a moment latter, the clatter and clinking of glass settled, and everything was too silent.

Arthur noticed how tightly his hands were clasped around the moulding of the door and Merlin’s shirt. He noticed the strain in his teeth and his tightened jaw. 

When he was certain it was over, he let go and said, “What the hell just happened?”

“An earthquake,” was the answer.

“ _Obviously_ , it was an earthquake!” Arthur snipped, and settled. Adrenaline still coursed through him.

Obviously, it was an earthquake. And, Arthur had never been in an earthquake before, but he was certain it was a rather powerful one. It was a miracle the manor didn’t collapse around them.

“There aren’t any earthquakes in Britain,” he said, as though that would erase the past few minutes—moments—hours. Arthur couldn’t be sure how long the world had rattled. He felt like it was _still_ rattling.

Merlin’s eyes flickered to him. “Not since the years before the War.”

Arthur tensed again. There was too much weight in Merlin’s tone, too much meaning in his gaze. He didn’t seem surprised; in fact, he looked as though he’d been expecting this. Arthur got the distinct impression that Merlin knew exactly what had caused the quake.

“What are you not telling me?” 

Arthur didn’t have the time nor the energy to deal with the fact that Merlin had lied to him _again_. Lying by omission—total omission this time, it would seem, as Arthur doubted something so recent was in Merlin’s journals. 

The council was called to Guildhall for an emergency meeting. The only committee member still in Winchester was Simmons as she aided her people in moving back to Anglia. She, Arthur’s knights, Gaius, and Gwen all sat at a long conference table in Guildhall’s largest room, warm coats huddled over pyjamas. Arthur was standing; across from him, so was Leon. The night hadn’t gotten any less black, but at least the world had quieted.

“Half the buildings on Stanmore Lane have crumbled, sire, and a small fire started on Stockbridge Road. We’ve received reports of lesser damage in other areas,” Leon said when Arthur asked for a report.

“And some sheep escaped from Farmer Jameson’s pen,” Gwaine chuckled. Arthur silenced him with a glare to show how unamused he was, and Gwaine’s gaze fell to the tabletop. 

Leon sat down and Arthur sighed. Reluctantly, he looked to the man on his right. “What of the creatures of magic? Thank god they haven’t panicked and destroyed half the city.” Arthur shuddered to think about how many lives could have been lost—just as many as the killings that turned Winchester to abandonment in the first place. So far, there hadn’t been any reports of attacks, but Arthur felt as though he were holding his breath and waiting to submerge under water. 

“Dagnija is bringing them back to the forest,” Merlin said. “She’ll contain them.”

“She’d better.” The sharpness of Arthur’s tone wasn’t fair. It wasn’t like Merlin could have prevented the earthquake, but the irrational side of him wanted someone to blame. Next to him, Gwen shuffled softly as though she were about to object to Arthur’s tone; but she knew there was a time and a place, and held her tongue.

“You still haven’t said what caused the earthquake,” Simmons reminded him. He had promised them a reason before first demanding a damage report and a death toll, which was thankfully much lower than he’d feared. “Was it Morgana?”

“No,” Arthur assured; although, the true reason was probably much more unsettling than his sister. He looked to Merlin again. “Tell them what you told me.”

He sat down, and didn’t even try to make himself comfortable. It was no use. He was still far too on edge, expecting another quake or a hailstorm or a flood any moment.

Merlin remained seated, too, and he spoke in an even tone, as exhausted as the circles under his eyes suggested. “When Arthur . . . When he was sent to Avalon, its gates were sealed. Magic began disappearing from the earth. But, when Avalon was preparing to send him back into the mortal world, the Old Religion started to build again.”

“We don’t need a history lesson, Merlin,” Arthur said impatiently.

Merlin’s exhale was insolent, suggesting whatever thought must have run through his mind. He didn’t say it, but instead jumped to the important part of the story. “As Arthur returned, the Gates of Avalon were opened again, allowing for a steady stream of magic to come through. It was supposed to re-enter the world bit by bit, but Mordred sped up the process. Each time he pulled one of you from Avalon, he opened the gates wider than they ever should be. The Old Religion is building too quickly. The earth can’t keep up." 

Simmons’ eyes searched the wood of the table as though she were reading. She said, “So, all those natural disasters that happened before the War—the hurricanes, the volcanoes, the storms . . .”

There was a question in her tone.

“It was magic returning to the world after thousands of years,” Merlin confirmed.

Gwen worried, “And that was the magic that was _meant_ to return. There’s not telling what damage such a great influx could wreak now.”

Arthur leaned to this side and pressed his lips into his fist. In the closeness, he could hear Merlin’s breathing, could see his chest rise and fall out of the corners of his eyes. It was a little too steady, like Merlin was consciously telling himself to breathe.

“Then, we need to close Avalon again,” Simmons said mildly, like it was so easy. Arthur wasn’t sure how to close the gates, but he was willing to bet it wouldn’t be simple in the least. It never was with the Old Religion.

“How can we do that, Merlin?” Gwen asked. 

For the briefest moment, Arthur thought he saw Merlin and Lancelot’s gazes flicker to one another. Jealousy burned through his chest, causing him to tighten his fist to get it under control. He prayed he was imagining things.

“It requires a living sacrifice,” Merlin said slowly, as though it were a surprise. Arthur had known there wasn’t a chance of Merlin saying anything else. “It needs someone—a mortal—to take Arthur’s place.”

Simmons scoffed. “Don’t be silly. That’s archaic.”

“We are dealing with very ancient forces, Prime Minister,” Gaius reminded her, as though he were defending the ways of magic.

Simmons’ eyes grew wide as the information truly sank in. “There must be another way.”

“There isn’t,” Merlin told her.

“How can you know that? Who told you this information?”

“Someone close to Avalon.”

“Who?”

“I trust her.”

_Freya_ , Arthur realised. It took him a moment to notice Simmons had directed her attention to him.

“You can’t seriously be considering this?”

Arthur leaned against his chair. “No, of course not,” he said, not meaning for it to sound so weary. He would not sacrifice an innocent person to Avalon, to keep them forever in a stasis, not even allowing them death. He would not let anyone become him. 

Guilt had been turning in his stomach since Merlin first told him the news. He knew he wasn’t to blame. How could he be? He didn’t command the Old Religion. He didn’t make the rules, nor did he bring himself back into the mortal world. But the fact remained that his return had set all of this into motion. 

If he didn’t stop it, the world would tear itself apart.

A solution tickled at the back of his mind. _Go back, go back, go back_ , it whispered to him. He could sacrifice himself. He’d close the gates. He’d never age or die or exist ever again. He’d be held in the space between life and death for eternity, ensuring the two never mixed with each other; ensuring the safety of the living world. 

He wouldn’t have touch or memory or time. He’d have only darkness, even darker than the night outside. 

_Go back go back go back_. 

But he was scared. He didn’t have this same cowardice in his youth—or, at least, he was able to push it to the side. He would have dove headfirst into Avalon’s waters if it meant saving others. But that was before he’d known death. 

And now, he was scared.

So was Merlin. His controlled breathing had nothing to do with the earthquake or the Old Religion. He feared Arthur leaving him again. He was waiting with dread for Arthur to say he was going back. It vibrated off his skin, snaking towards Arthur and prickling his flesh uneasily. 

Arthur wondered, if he said the words, if Merlin would ever breathe again.

“And before you all leap to sacrifice yourselves,” Arthur said, directing it at his knights, one of them in particular, “I mean it. There’s too much to do in this world as it is. I need each of you. Avalon will have to wait.”

He fixed them with another stern look so they understood it as an order, and he was confident they’d all comply.

He looked back at Merlin, suddenly second-guessing himself. “ _Can_ it wait? How long until this becomes critical?”

Briefly, Merlin was no longer sitting beside him. He was still physically there, but his expression went as vacant as a corpse. He reached deep inside himself, to the place where his full being met the land, the air, and the sea. It was only for a flash, barely a pause, but Arthur always caught it in the way his flesh began to crawl. It caused a shift in him, too, whenever Merlin strayed that far away from him.

“I don’t know,” Merlin admitted. “It’s building every day.” And he would know. He could feel it, perpetually growing stronger. Everyone present knew another disaster could strike any moment, more powerful than what they’d just experienced. 

Arthur nodded, making the only decision he could: “Then, we must assume we have _some_ time. I suggest we use it to find another way to close Avalon’s Gates.” He looked to Gwen. “Agreed?” 

She inclined her head. “So long as we don’t assume we have _too_ much time.” 

“God forbid,” Arthur muttered.

“Sire, if I may?” Gaius interjected, and Arthur motioned for him to continue. “Too much magic may not necessary be a bad thing, if we can harness it. Winchester is proof of that. The magic here has preserved the life in the land, even after the War. The Old Religion uses Merlin as its conduit. If he can direct the flow of magic through the ley lines, perhaps we can use this excess to heal the earth instead of destroy it.”

Arthur’s eyes lit up as he looked at Merlin. “Is that an option?”

Merlin considered it, but he looked miserable. “Yes, it is,” he acquiesced. “But there will still be too much. I can concentrate the magic for a time, but what happens afterward? There’s no point in healing the earth if it’s just going to get destroyed again.”

Arthur hated when he got that cynical.

“Sounds like you’ve never been wounded in battle,” Elyan said from across the table.

Merlin sighed. “I just mean—it’s a temporary fix. The problem won’t go away.”

“But it will buy us some time?” Arthur prayed.

Merlin looked back at him, paused, and nodded. He already looked like a flame extinguished, but he was their only chance of staying this threat. Arthur had no choice but to use him. “Then, you’ll do it,” he decided. “In the meantime, you’ll find us another way of shutting Avalon’s Gates.” He looked to Gaius. “Gaius, you will help Merlin with this task?”

The incline of Gaius’ chin had been much deeper than Gwen’s, much closer to a bow. “Of course, sire.”

“Good,” Arthur said with finality. “Leon, I want a full report of the damage done by the earthquake by midday.”

“Sire.”

“Council dismissed.”

There was a melody of chairs scraping against the floor, and hushed chatter as the room emptied.

“Merlin, I will come to manor as soon as I’ve finished tending to the wounded,” Gaius said, lingering as he spoke over Arthur. “I suggest you get started in the meantime.”

Merlin nodded, and Gaius shuffled out of the room after the others.

Arthur and Merlin were left alone. The silence echoed off the high ceilings, the sodium lights above buzzing.

Merlin broke the quiet. “Arthur, there is no other way.” His eyes remained in front of him, staring at nothing, and his hands stayed folded on the table before him.

Arthur closed his eyes for a long time. He wished he could go back to sleep, but knew he wouldn’t be able to if he tried. “Have you _tried_ to find another way?" 

Merlin didn’t answer.

Arthur opened his eyes. “Speak to Freya again. Perhaps you’re not asking her the right questions.” Perhaps Gaius would. He’d be more objective than Merlin on this matter.

“You’re not going back,” Merlin said as though he were ripping off a plaster, proving just how subjective he truly was. Arthur wondered if Merlin could read his mind.

Arthur could no longer be mad at him, or place any blame on him. He reached over and blanketed his palm on top of Merlin’s folded hands. His fingers didn’t quite fully cover Merlin’s, whose hands had always been larger than Arthur’s; and Arthur thought it was time he put a ring back on those fingers. He knew the touch had comforted Merlin, whose skin was as frigid as Avalon’s waters. 

How much energy was the Old Religion taking from him that night?

“I’m not going anywhere,” Arthur swore, as though he could promise such things. It seemed the right thing to say, and knew it was when Merlin took in a rattling breath that sounded a lot like relief. 

Arthur gave Merlin’s hands a quick squeeze before releasing them. He stood up. “Go on, Merlin. Find me another way.”

Merlin shook his head. “Sometimes, there isn’t one.”

“Make sure this isn’t one of those times.”

Merlin looked like he was about to argue, but he didn’t. He settled and nodded slowly, promising to at least try.


	6. Chapter 6

The earth below was a pattern of green and brown, neatly packed squares with winding lines of black and blue cutting through them. Full towns were miniscule, and the people that inhabited them weren’t even specks to Lancelot’s eyes. 

When they first boarded the helicopter, borrowed from the London police, he had felt both a rush of excitement and the thrill of fear wash over him. When it lifted into the air, its blades twirling in a deafening hum muffled by the pair of headphones he wore, he’d marvelled at the wonder of it all. Gwen, along with the others that had seen them off, drifted away as they climbed higher into the air. The world became a different place in the sky—so much larger than Lancelot had ever imagined, with a full view of every distant horizon. He wondered why birds ever landed. 

They had been in the helicopter for over an hour now. Leon was beginning to turn a pale shade of green, much to Elyan and Percival’s amusement. They teased him relentlessly, and Leon responded by wiping the sweat from his brow. Every once in a while, a static, whooping shout sounded over the headphones as Gwaine, seated directly across from Lancelot, excitedly pointed at something out the window that everyone else was too slow to catch.

Arthur sat on the opposite window, but never looked out of it. He stared straight, his posture rigid and his jaw tight as though he were going into battle. His fists were balled on his knees, knuckles whitening each time the helicopter dipped suddenly. Merlin sat in the middle of Arthur and Gwaine, appearing quite at home in the air. He observed the others’ reactions with curiosity, and Lancelot watched him. Merlin had probably flown many times in his travels, Lancelot realised. Even before the dawn of planes and flying machines, Merlin had flown on the wings of a dragon.

Lancelot imagined what that must have been like, with the wind rushing against his ears and his arms spread as if the wings were his own. He wondered if Dagnija would allow him the honour of experiencing it when she was grown.

“Almost there. ‘Bout twenty more minutes,” Wallace answered an unasked question through the headphones. He was sitting in the cockpit next to their pilot. They were flying over friendly lands to cut time off their trip to Scotland, but it would be much too dangerous to enter Neo-Druid territory. They were to land a few kilometres from the border in Anglia, where Darby had arranged a jeep to meet them for the remainder of their journey.

The trek through the Neo lands would be hard, but it was the next leg of the journey that worried Lancelot. Miles of the Wastelands lay between them and the Silver City. Supposedly, the terrain was unforgiving, and should anything go wrong, they’d be stranded. He tried to remain optimistic, and was relieved to have Merlin with them should the worst happen. 

“ _Finally_ ,” Lancelot saw Arthur, thinking no one was watching, mouth to Merlin. Merlin snorted in amusement at his discomfort, but his next action gave his true feelings away. He took Arthur’s hand, still curled on his knee, and entwined their fingers just long enough to squeeze it. Merlin gazed at him like he always had, in a way Lancelot could not describe without using Arthur’s name. By the time Merlin’s hand was placed back in his lap, some of the tension in Arthur’s shoulders was gone.

Lancelot looked away, bashful upon witnessing such a private moment. He peered out the window again and his reflection was biting back a smile as he thought of Gwen waving to him unceasingly until the helicopter was high up, and of himself, his palm raised at her, until she was out of sight. 

Lost in thoughts of her, he didn’t notice the field below slowly getting closer. It wasn’t until the constant roaring of the blades slowed to a dull thrumming in his chest, did he realise they were landing. When they hopped out of the helicopter, Lancelot’s legs were slightly wobbly from sitting so long at such an altitude.

A sergeant from Darby’s army was there to meet them, and a large black rover stood on the road behind him. With perfect posture, he saluted Arthur until they were all in the vehicle. He passed the keys to Wallace, and got into the helicopter. The blades began spinning, slow at first but gaining in speed and sound as the wind thrashed about and it hefted its metal body into the air. When it was merely a speck in the sky, Wallace looked back in the rearview.

“Ready?”

He’d been speaking to Arthur, who was crowded into the middle seat of the car’s second row. Lancelot was sitting next to him, and from the corner of his eye he saw Arthur’s jaw tense again, worse than it had in the helicopter. He nodded once, stiffly. “Let’s begin.”

Wallace started the engine and began to drive. In the passenger’s seat, Merlin kept his eyes peeled onto the road. They hadn’t yet entered hostile territory, but already he was on edge. Lancelot had no doubt he was using his magic to anticipate what lay ahead. 

It took them a quarter of an hour to reach the tall, wire fence that separated Anglia from the Neo-Druid lands. Their passage had been arranged ahead of time on the Anglican side, but they were on their own once the guards waved them through. The Neo checkpoint guards wouldn’t be so friendly, and they’d have to avoid them at all costs. The backcountry roads were their best route, but they had to keep their eyes peeled for patrols.

At first, a heavy silence hung in the car. Naturally, they all fell into their usual roles. Percival and Elyan were the lookouts on the rear and edges of their company, Gwaine watched their front, which usually went hand-in-hand as his job as the navigator. It was an itch he couldn’t scratch, apparently, because he kept leaning forward and telling Wallace where to turn.

“Hey, back-seat driver,” Wallace finally snipped, “there’s no road that way!”

Lancelot and Leon had their hands on their swords, ready to defend. Although, Lancelot didn’t know how he was expected to react quickly in the small confines of the jeep. He felt vulnerable, and packed in much too tightly. However, the world around them was rural and desolate, and the sky above was the colour of iron, which darkened the hues of the tan grass and grey trees into something sinister. Lancelot didn’t trust the land any more than he trusted the enemy that inhabited it. 

They drove for nearly two hours without incident, taking the roads through wooded areas when possible, and steering away from towns and main roads. They passed all sorts of places: abandoned villages, disused factory farms, and a crumbling death camp that they quickly turned away from. When Merlin sensed a presence, whether patrol or trader, dozens of kilometres away, Wallace veered off course to find another route north.

It was midday, the sun’s light still too weak to break through the cloud cover, when Gwaine said, “What’s that ahead?”

He gestured to a massive figure planted on the crest of the hill before them.

The car slowed to a halt almost immediately as all gazes found the silhouette. It was a tree, sturdy and full with a web of thick, naked limbs jutting out like spears in all directions. Shadows hung from the branches like silk cocoons, still in the breeze but spinning slowly like the needle of a compass, clockwise and then counter-clockwise. They were in varying sizes, and Lancelot counted nine of them.

He could feel the warmth drain from his body as he realised what the shadows were. 

“Move closer,” Arthur ordered.

Wallace began to protest, “I don’t know if that’s—.”

“I said, move closer.”

Slowly, the wheels turned, bringing them up the hill until they were next to the tree. Wallace killed the engine and everyone piled out of the car, silent as a funeral march. 

Lancelot peered up at the bodies in the tree, his eyes level with some of their feet. The one closest to him was missing one shoe. A raven cawed, and he looked up to find a murder roosting on a high branch, looking down at them with black eyes. The grey and blue flesh on the bodies nearest the birds had been pecked clean from the bone. Lancelot couldn’t look for very long, as it turned his stomach. Some of bodies were children.

As he brought his attention to the grass, its long brown stocks rustling in the wind that chapped Lancelot’s nose despite the fact that it was June, the smell overwhelmed him. It was stale instead of rotting, but pungent all the same. They must have been left out for days. He supposed they were fortunate the temperature was not as warm as it should have been for this time of year, and even colder in the north. The smell in the heat would have been unbearable.

“Look at this,” Elyan said. He dipped down at the base of the tree and wiped away some fallen leaves from a wooden slab. The rope that had once secured it to the tree had frayed and snapped. Block letters were caved into the sign. They read, _A WARNING TO THOSE WHO SERVE THE KING_.

Elyan read the words aloud, his voice sorrowful.

Lancelot swallowed hard, an aching in his chest. He looked to Arthur, whose gaze stayed fixed on the swinging figures. His eyes were red and mournful, as if every vacant face before him were a familiar friend. 

“We can’t leave them like this,” he said at last. “We have to cut them down.”

“Sire, that could take hours,” Leon told him, though regrettably.

“Then, we’ll drive through the night to make up time,” Arthur bit out. He was too determined to hear a word against the plan. He ripped his gaze from the tree and faced his men. “Morgana did this to them because of—.” For a moment, he looked as though he’d be sick. He physically wavered, and his gaze swept to Merlin. Sombrely, Merlin held it for a long time. 

They two must have held an entire conversation in the silence, because Arthur steeled himself enough to command, “We bury them." 

Lancelot bowed his head. “Yes, sire.” The others did the same without protest. Despite the time it would take from them, none wished to leave the victims in such a state. They had been slaves in life, and Lancelot prayed they’d be free in death. 

They took turns digging the graves, climbing up the spidery limbs to cut the ropes, standing below to catch the bodies as they were lowered, keeping watch, and scaring off the hungry ravens. By the time they were finished, the sun was already making its descent towards the west. Lancelot’s body ached for sleep, and his stomach growled for food.

With old blood under their nails, fresh soil on their cheeks, and bones numb with a chill, they devoured what rations of dried meats and beans they could allow. Arthur was the last back in the jeep.

 

///

 

Night spread its veil over the hills of the Neo Territory much earlier than it did in Winchester, or at least it felt that way. The days had been growing longer in the reminder of summer licking at their heels; and yet, Lancelot could taste frost like iron on his tongue, and could smell it on the wind. He huddled in his jacket as the car snaked through a forest road in Cumbria. 

At times, through the trees, Lancelot could catch glimpses of a lake sparkling in the distant moonlight or a mountain summit, white-tipped with snow, looming over the fells. Dead leaves crunched and swirled beneath the tyres. The dark was dense outside, and the thin, chilled windows of the rover barely kept it out. 

When Lancelot breathed, the air thinned visibly in front of his face.

He turned his attention briefly forward to find Arthur leaning over the glove compartment between the driver and passenger seat. His ear was turned to Merlin, who whispered into it so low that Lancelot couldn’t even hear a murmur. He didn’t know what they were saying, and knew he’d never find out. He never had determined their frequent whispers on excursions from Camelot; as he did in those days, he turned away to give them their privacy. 

Lancelot had thought things would be different on a quest now that Merlin and Arthur were married; but he’d been wrong. In fact, he realised he shouldn’t have been so surprised that things between them were remarkably the same. They still protected each other with the same ferocity, snipped at each other with the same frustration, disingenuously called each other the same insults, and tended to each other with the same careful softness when they thought no one was watching.

When Lancelot looked back out the window, he thought he saw a flash of movement between the trees. He blinked and focused harder, but the shadow did not present itself again. He figured it must have been a reflection in the window, but then the car began to slow.

“Hey, up ahead,” Wallace said as the car stopped moving. Everyone looked to where the headlights were illuminating a thick tree trunk blocking the road.

“Neos?” Arthur wondered.

In the rearview mirror, Lancelot saw Merlin’s eyes close for longer than a blink, but only just. 

“No,” Merlin said. “I can’t sense any magic.”

“Maybe it’s just a fallen tree,” Gwaine offered hopefully.

Arthur ground his teeth, considering it. He did not reveal what he’d landed on, but he did say, “We need to move it. Everyone out. Leon, Lancelot, take watch. Wallace, stay behind the wheel and keep the engine running." 

They opened the doors, and Lancelot felt a surreal lurch in his gut. He knew it was only paranoia, and tried his best to shove it aside; but, as he slid out of the car, his skin prickled as though he were being watched.

He went to the back of the car and stared down the dark, empty road. The cracked tar was a river of black glass in the shrouded moonlight, and the trees rustled in the light breeze. He kept his hand on the hilt of his sword.

Behind him, he heard Arthur calling out commands to the others, but keeping his voice low. There was a grumble of grunts as they tried to lift the tree.

Something in the brush caught Lancelot’s eyes. Before he could fully process it, a group of people sprung out of the trees. They brandished pitchforks, hammers, and kitchen knives. They wore loose, filthy clothes. At once, Lancelot knew they weren’t Neos, but they didn’t appear to be friends, either. Even if they weren’t soldiers, they could have been Neo spies.

“Arthur!” Lancelot shouted, pulling out his sword. Immediately, it connected with a scythe one of the men at the front was bringing down on him. The others pulled out their swords to prepare for a fight, even though they were clearly outnumbered. More people emerged from the trees, and they were surrounded on all sides. 

“Drop the weapons,” the man with the scythe ordered. He was a wall of a man, with straggly long hair pulled into a ponytail and an unkempt, curly beard that went halfway down his front. The presence of the hair made him look more like a bear than a man. He wore a simple grey Henley and thick trousers held up by braces.

The man looked at the car and said to his companions. “Get the driver out.”

Three people made for the car, and Lancelot heard Wallace’s fruitless protests as he was manhandled out of the drivers seat. Once he was on his feet, Wallace submitted by holding his hands behind his head, his gun held loosely in his fingers.

“Weapons, drop them,” the man said again. Slowly, they all bent down and placed their weapons on the road.

“You, too, lad,” the man ordered, brandishing his scythe at Merlin.

“Don’t have one,” Merlin said. He held up both hands and turned them to show the man the backs and palms. “See? Empty.”

The cold tension in Lancelot’s throat eased slightly.

The man twisted his grip around the splintered handle of his weapon as though preparing for a fight. “I won’t believe that for a second,” he growled. “You Neo bastards always have something up your sleeves.” 

Lancelot’s brows knitted together as it dawned on him that this was merely a misunderstanding. 

“Neos?” Arthur repeated, offended. “ _We_ aren’t Neos.”

“You don’t answer to the queen?” Lancelot asked.

The man was narrowing his eyes at each of them, deciding what to believe. “The queen?” he answered, disgusted. He sucked in saliva and spat it on the ground to show his feelings for Morgana. Lancelot tried not to pull a disgusted face. “We serve the king.”

Finally. Some good news! Lancelot assumed their travels through the Neo Territory were about to get a lot easier. They may even have a safe place to rest for the night, and some fresh food to eat.

“Do you not recognise your king when he’s in your presence?” Leon demanded. He gestured to Arthur, who straightened his posture, but appeared humble in the same moment.

“Leon, please,” he said.

The man with the scythe seemed immensely baffled. “What are you on about?”

“ _This_ is the king,” Leon told him. “Standing before you is Arthur Pendragon.”

The man’s eyes lit up in recognition, but not in reverence, Lancelot noticed.

“Arthur Pendragon?” a woman’s voice came from the group. She pushed to the front to stand beside the man. “Tom, it’s Arthur. He said this would happen. He said Arthur would come.”

“Who said?” Lancelot wondered.

“The king,” the woman responded excitedly. Lancelot shook his head. Nothing these people said made sense. 

The woman turned back to her companion. “We have our orders. If Arthur should ever come through our lands, we’re to take him to the king.” She peered at Arthur. “Have you come for the coronation?” 

Arthur opened and closed his mouth a few times, unsure of what to say. Next to him, Merlin replied coolly, “Yes. We received the king’s invitation a few days ago. We took a big risk coming here, but . . .” He caught Arthur’s eyes briefly, telling him to play along.

“But I felt this was the perfect occasion to meet him, and secure our alliance,” Arthur finished. He sounded confident, but only to the untrained ear.

Lancelot tried not to wince as he surveyed the two farmers at the forefront of the group. Whoever their king was, there was a chance they didn’t know Arthur never received a message from him. He remembered the bodies hanging from the trees, the ones they buried. They all assumed those people had died in Arthur’s name. They hadn’t. It was this mystery king, who clearly was no friend to Morgana and the Neos. 

“Well,” the man, Tom, said, apparently accepting their story. “You’re travelling in the opposite direction of Loweswater.”

“We got lost,” Merlin answered quickly. “Will you take us? We shouldn’t keep the king waiting. He’ll want to know Arthur is here.”

“Of course!” the woman said. “If we hurry, we’ll be in time for the ceremony.”

The ceremony. It must have been the coronation they’d mentioned.

They got back in the car, leaving the farmers behind to make their own way. Tom rode with them, giving them directions to Loweswater. Along the way, he was the only one who spoke. The others quietly made eyes at each other, relaying defence strategies in the silence, should they need to fight. Frigid hands gripped Lancelot’s insides as they drove through the wet roads, out of the forest, and through mountain passes towards the unknown.

Soon, they reached the scattered hamlet where they’d meet the mystery king. Dirty white Tudor-style buildings sat at great distances from each other, making them feel secluded and disconnected. They didn’t seem like they were part of a town at all. Their only connector was the towering mountain that kept all the houses in its shadow. Most of the homes had wood fences around them, where goats and sheep slept and grazed the damp grass. Other properties held chicken coops of varying sizes.

From time to time, they passed groups of people walking in the same direction in which Tom was directing the car. The clothes they wore were old and fading, but didn’t appear to be work clothes. They were all dressed in their best, and parents herded their children along the road towards the mountain. They frowned at the car curiously as it drove by. Lancelot recalled the first time he saw a car. His expression must have been the same as the children’s as they stared. 

The crowd of people thickened the closer they got to the mountain. 

As the car got nearer, Lancelot wondered if they would drive up to the mountain’s peak. However, close to the base, Tom told them to turn towards a group of buildings nestled together. In the area surrounding the buildings, fires were lit and long tables were put out amongst ribbons and streamers. A mass of people stood around, preparing for the festivities.

“The king is waiting in the inn,” Tom said when they got out the car. He pointed towards one of the buildings, and then to another. “The coronation will take place in the church. I’ll make sure there are seats reserved in the front for you.”

“Thank you,” Arthur told him before Tom scuttled off. He looked at the inn with suspicion.

Lancelot peered about, taking in the hubbub around them.

“Some kind of trap?” Percival said, keeping his voice low so only their group could hear.

Lancelot had the same reservations in the car, right up until they reached the inn. “Seems like a very elaborate trap to me,” he said.

“No way Morgana doesn’t know this is going on,” Gwaine answered.

In a way that suggested the bodies they’d buried just hours ago, Arthur said, “Clearly she does.” He must have been relieved that those people hadn’t died for him; and yet, Lancelot knew the fact didn’t ease Arthur’s guilt any. Morgana’s troops had killed them. To Arthur, that made their deaths his fault, no matter whom the victims served.

“She may not know the identity of the king,” Elyan suggested.

Gwaine snorted. “Aye, kinda like we don’t?”

“I don’t like this,” said Wallace, voicing each of their feelings about the situation.

“Be on your guard,” Arthur ordered. Even as he said it, his fingers rested casually on the pommel of his sword. He looked at Merlin. “On your guard,” he repeated more sternly. Merlin nodded once. They all followed Arthur into the inn.

The inside was rustic, a quality attributed more to its age and design than its upkeep. In fact, it appeared rather well kept, and obviously doubled as some kind of community centre now there were no guests to call it an inn. They walked blindly through the narrow halls, past rooms dedicated to various purposes. One room was filled with rows of folding chairs facing a blank white wall. Another was bare of furniture but was littered with blankets and pillows, board games and their boxes strewn about them. Another room had sofas, chairs, and a modest shelving unit loaded with books and dusty VHS tapes but no television on which to view them.

Soon, it became clear to Lancelot that, whatever this community had, they shared. He’d seen such communes before.

The inside of the building was abuzz with activity. Women hustled by with garments and table cloths wrapped in their arms, or flickering bare candles held out in front of them for light. Men rushed through with laden trays of raw meat and vats of water ready to boil, and Lancelot thought the corridor they were bounding down led towards some kind of kitchen. Perhaps a pub had been a part of this inn when it was functioning. 

Each of them tried to flag down one of the workers, but they were so intent on their chores that no one paid them any mind or even appeared to notice their presence. Finally, a middle-aged woman seemed to realise they were strangers to the village. She came forward, lifting up her gas lamp to cast ghastly shadows on the deep wrinkles around her eyes. 

“You’re not supposed to be in here,” she told them sternly. “Staff only. Everyone else is to gather in the church or on the fields.”

“Forgive us. We seek the king,” Arthur told her. “My name is Arthur Pendragon. He . . . I think your king is expecting me.”

She nodded fervently upon Arthur’s introduction, seeming eager. “In a way,” she answered. “He hoped you would one day come through the Territory. You’ve come on an important night.” 

“It seems so. Will you take us to him?”

“Follow me.”

As she led them up the creaking stairs to the upper floor of the inn, Lancelot wondered why this king waited for them to come to him. If he really wanted to speak with Arthur so badly, why hadn’t he come to Winchester himself, or at least sent word? Perhaps he hadn’t the means. These people were still Neo slaves, and whatever money they had came from York. Morgana’s spies were vigilant, and the king may have lacked the ability to slip out of the Territory unnoticed.

The king was in hiding. He had no real power, this slave king, and yet he seemed to have followers all over the Territory. Lancelot could not blame the people for rallying behind someone in the hope of bettering their lives. He had no idea what promises their king gave them, but perhaps now that they had seen Arthur, they would have real cause for hope.

The upstairs was quieter and less crowded, and they were led to a room towards the middle of the hall. When the woman knocked on the door, a man’s voice answered, “Enter.”

They filed in, the woman going before them and saying, “Your Majesty, Arthur Pendragon is here to see you. I know you’re getting ready for the ceremony, but I thought it best to bring him at once.”

Lancelot’s jaw nearly dropped at the sight of the man before them. He was dressed in all black, from his polished boots to his starched shirt. He was much taller than Lancelot remembered, or perhaps he only noticed it now. The dark trousers lengthened his legs when armour hid them. His hair, too, was clipped, when it had once been to his shoulders.

But his eyes were unchanged. Their dark hues latched onto Arthur and never let go, like a snake gleefully coiling around its prey. Lancelot felt himself anticipating a fight.

“Thank you, Meredith,” Cenred said. He rushed forward and made to grab Arthur’s hand, and suddenly everyone’s sword was drawn. However, they were all too slow for Merlin. Cenred went careening across the room as though he’d been thrown. He crashed against a wooden chair and table, sending them both toppling along with the pitcher of wine on top. Merlin lowered his hand.

“Majesty!” Meredith screamed, running towards Cenred as he coughed and caught his breath. “Guards!”

“No, no,” Cenred wheezed, putting up his palm to stop her. He managed a wincing grin and she helped him to his feet. “I probably deserved that. He meant no harm.”

“I meant more than harm,” Merlin said darkly, taking a determined step forward. Meredith stopped smacking the loose droplets of wine off Cenred’s ruined shirt and placed herself like a human shield between her king and Merlin. Arthur grabbed the collar of Merlin’s shirt and pulled him back. 

“What is this?” he demanded. Lancelot scanned the room, suddenly wary of Morgana popping out from behind every shadowed corner. He saw nothing, but remained vigilant anyway.

“Not what you think,” Cenred told him. “I greet you as a friend.”

“A friend, eh? Where’s Morgause?” Gwaine sneered.

Cenred did not react like the insult had stuck. “With her sister and their Druid orphan, I suppose. Morgana hasn’t left York in months. She fears you, not knowing she should fear me. Though, I would like to keep her unaware for as long as I can. She still believes I stand with her, and will believe it until we are strong enough to take her army on.” 

Arthur shook his head. “Last time I saw you in London, you were at Morgana’s side. You fight in her army.” 

“I was alongside them, but not with them. She, Morgause—all the Neos—they treated me as they treat them.” He gestured to Meredith, who was staring down the drawn swords as though her hatred was a weapon far stronger. “Like a slave. They mean to wipe us all out, and the ones they spare will be no better than cattle for Morgana’s use. I vowed to never let that happen. I curse the day I ever laid eyes on Morgause. She ruined me once, but she will see justice for that soon enough.”

Lancelot didn’t know what to believe. The anger in Cenred’s voice and the vengeance in his eyes seemed true enough, but he had never been a cunning trickster. Could he really conceal his plans from Morgana and Morgause for so long?

Cenred turned to Meredith. “Fetch some more wine and glasses for our friends. And a new shirt, if you will. I cannot be crowned a sodden mess.”

Meredith hesitated, giving the group before her an untrusting look. But then she curtsied and left the room.

Arthur remained silent for a moment, his jaw set as he watched Cenred carefully. Then, he commanded, “Lower your weapons. I’ll hear what he has to say.”

“I will answer any question you have,” Cenred promised cordially. “I am happy you’ve come, Arthur. In truth, I was beginning to lose hope you’d ever come through these lands, especially since I heard news of the provinces naming you king. What brings you, if not knowledge of what I’ve done here? Surely, you don’t mean to take on Morgana’s army with six men and a serving boy.” His dark gaze flickered to Merlin in an assessing way. “Although, I hear you are much more than that. She fears you most of all, you know? Morgana. She speaks of you as if you’re a pillar of smoke.”

He gestured to Arthur’s belt. “She fears your sword, too. Tell me, have you come to kill her with that alone?” He seemed almost hopeful.

“Our business is no concern of yours,” Arthur told him.

“Still, you don’t trust me.”

“You’ve given me no reason to.”

“Then, stay for the coronation,” he invited. “See for yourself if my people and I are true.”

Lancelot wasn’t certain that was a good idea. If it was a trap, and Morgana somehow knew they were travelling through her lands, staying would only give her more time to execute her plan. However, curiosity whittled at his thoughts. What if Cenred was telling the truth?

Apparently, Arthur decided to take the risk. He said, “I will. I believe one of your followers has reserved us seats in the church.” 

“Then, please, make yourselves at home. So long as you’re here, you and your men will want for nothing, my friend.” Cenred held out his hand again.

Arthur paused, but gripped it by the wrist and shook it. Cenred gave him a toothy, satisfied smile that did nothing to settle Lancelot’s nerves.

 

///

 

The main auditorium of Guildhall was filled with a mass of new refugees that had come in from the northern borderlands of the Midlands. For weeks, the Neos were trying to push back into the provinces, and had completely overrun the towns along the River Trent. The union’s troops were fighting to keep the towns under the Midland’s control, but it had turned the area into a warzone. The civilians fled with not much more than the clothes on their backs.

The refugees, at least a thousand of them, had arrived that afternoon. Those in need of more serious medical care were sent to hospital immediately, and Gwen prayed there were enough beds and doctors left to treat them. Some others remained in Guildhall awaiting instruction on where to go. Gaius bandaged their lesser wounds and staff did what they could to make them fed and comfortable. 

Gwen was right alongside them, fetching water and bandages when needed, and assuring the people that they were safe now, and most welcome in Winchester.

However, she wasn’t quite assured as she let on. Ever since Winchester opened itself to Anglia, there had been an influx of refugees from all over. They came from every province after the Neos decimated their towns. Some of them found homes in Winchester, and remained even after their villages were clear of the Neos. When Anglia had been recaptured, too, more civilians remained than they thought, comfortable in their new lives and work raising crops and livestock. 

In the first months, the majority of refugees came from the Neo Territory—families without magic fleeing Morgana’s rule. However, their numbers dwindled to almost nothing over time, and Gwen worried Morgana’s troops were capturing anyone trying to escape. Then, there were those crossing the Channel from France and Belgium, seeking solace from their own governments.

On top of the refugees, many people came from the overcrowded London Territory to find work or join the army. The military itself took up whole portions of the city. 

There simply wasn’t any room left in Winchester, and the towns surrounding it were still too run down to inhabit. The people came faster than they could refurbish, and no one had anywhere to go. People— _children!_ —were sleeping in tents in the parks and football pitches, and making camp on the pavements and alleyways. Gwen’s heart broke for them.

Something had to be done.

Gwen made for the long table that was set up with water and downed a bottle until the plastic crinkled between her fingers. It was cool in her chest as it sloshed through her, and made her feel somewhat better. She had been so busy with the refugees that she hadn’t eaten anything since that morning, and was beginning to get dizzy.

While Arthur was away, he entrusted Gwen with Winchester. These people were her responsibility. She would have felt the same even had Arthur been present.

She saw Gaius finish bandaging up the arm of a small boy and pat him on the head to send him on his way. As the child trotted off, he caught Gwen’s eyes over the crowd. He collected his medical kit and teetered towards her. She had a bottle of water waiting for him. 

“I believe I’ve done all I can here,” Gaius reported after he took a swallow of his drink. “They cannot wait here forever, Gwen. We have to begin clearing them from Guildhall.” 

Gwen’s eyes swept over the heads of the people. The staff still buzzed around, providing packets of snacks and warm blankets. “And send them where? We have no housing for them, and there are only so many we can send to the farms for work.” That was a temporary fix, anyway. Most of the farmers already had enough hands, and had to turn many new ones away. The people always came back to the city in search of other jobs. 

She worried at her lower lip and she pondered the issue. “If only we could send them to the city’s outer limits . . .”

“It will still be many months before the city limits are rebuilt, my Lady,” said Gaius, “and many of them are promised to the soldiers and their families.”

Gwen sighed. He’d told her nothing she already knew, but it was still difficult to hear.

“We cannot keep going on like this,” she said.

“I’m sorry to say it, Gwen, but I think we must start turning refugees away until we have more space.”

She knew Gaius was right. She’d thought the very same weeks ago, but never dared mention it to Arthur. He would order the builders to work faster, and for the council to find a way to make space for people as they came. He’d mean well, as always, but they could not create room out of sheer power of will. 

Gwen did not want to turn refugees away, either. They were people, scared and in danger, who had left their lives in search of safety and peace. If they couldn’t offer their citizens those things, they were not doing their jobs as rulers.

But the fact remained: the builders were working as fast as they could. But their teams were scattered all around the city, never focused on the same area. Because of it, building simultaneously took half the time and double it.

And she understood the importance of keeping the army in the city, but their numbers were ever growing, and Winchester could not keep up.

Suddenly, a solution dawned. She stopped chewing at her lip and stood a little straighter.

“I think I have an idea,” she told Gaius. She’d need a map of the area. They were all upstairs in the offices. “Follow me.” She flew towards the door.

 

///

 

The coronation was nothing like Arthur had ever seen before. It was wholly unremarkable. The church was old and drafty, but proud in its own right, just like the citizens that inhabited this strange village. There were people crowded from wall to wall, a throne of the church’s modest presider’s chair, and a crown of rod iron. Arthur would have thought Cenred were being crowned a king of thieves. Still, the smirk Cenred wore of his face was victorious, like he was now king of the world.

“Hail Cenred,” praised the village’s priest, who had placed the crown on Cenred’s head. “The Twice Crowned, Defender of the People, King of York.” 

“Hail Cenred,” a chorus sang back from all around Arthur. It reverberated along the walls, and for a moment Arthur thought they would crumble. He shared a look with Merlin. Neither of them knew what this held for their future.

After the coronation, there was a celebration. Some of the sheep had been slaughtered and were cooking over a spit along with some vegetables that Arthur paused before eating. They hadn’t been processed, and may have not been safe to eat. He looked around, watching the villagers devouring the food. None of them appeared to keel over immediately, so he decided to test his luck. He took a micro-bite of a roasted tomato when, on the bench next to him, Merlin dropped down with all the grace of an avalanche. He was facing the opposite way, his back to the table and his elbows propped up behind him on the board. 

“There you are,” Arthur said, settling. Merlin had startled him slightly. “I wondered where you’d snuck off to.”

Merlin pressed his lips together, and his eyes flickered down to the food on Arthur’s plate. “I had a look around the village.”

“Of course, you did.”

“I didn’t see any Neo armies laying in wait. It doesn’t look like this is some trap.” He looked somewhat disappointed by that.

“Good,” Arthur said, though he didn’t suspect this being a trap. He saw it in the people’s eyes. The type of devotion they had for their king couldn’t be faked. He slid his plate to Merlin. “Now, eat something, will you?”

Merlin’s gaze shifted back and forth from the plate and Arthur. “You’re afraid to eat it, aren’t you?” 

Arthur rolled his eyes to shield how caught he was. “Alright, fine. I wanted to see if it was safe.”

Merlin pulled an annoyed face. “Good to know we’re back to this.”

“Oh, please, you can’t even die, remember? It’s harmless to you.”

“I’d get a stomach ache.” 

“God forbid.” 

Merlin chuckled softly and popped a piece of the tomato into his mouth. He chewed, and promptly clutched at his throat as though he’d been poisoned. It was all very theatrical.

“I’m dying!” he wheezed between gasps. “Arthur!” 

Arthur took a sip of wine to hide his grin. “You’ve made your point. I’ll never ask you again.”

“Too late! You’ve killed me!” Merlin flung himself dramatically into Arthur’s lap. He could hardly hold back his laughter now. “Hold me?”

“You’re an idiot.” 

A young farm girl came over and asked, “’Scuse me, sir?” She was looking directly at Arthur. Merlin cleared his throat and sat up straight before the girl continued, “King Cenred has asked you to dine with him.” 

He and Merlin shared another look. They’d been doing that quite a lot since they entered Loweswater.

_Go_ , Merlin silently urged, as if Arthur could refuse. He got up and followed the girl across the field to where Cenred was seated at the centre of a long, otherwise empty table. A bonfire had been set up a few metres in front of the table, and people were dancing around the growing flames. The embers burned in Cenred’s eyes when he saw Arthur. 

“My lord! Sit, sit,” he said, gesturing to the only other seat at the table. A place had been set there. He said to the farm girl, “Thank you, Jenna.” She blushed and performed what must have been her first curtsy.   Arthur found his brows were raised in surprise. He didn’t take Cenred as a king who knew the names of his subjects. 

Perhaps he shouldn’t have been shocked by it. Cenred always put his army before his pride in battle. Many times, had he called his men to retreat when he thought the battle lost. At first, Arthur thought it was cowardice. He knew better now. Despite Cenred’s outward demeanour, he always put his people before his honour. 

“Thank you,” Arthur said, sitting down when Cenred did. Immediately, his cup was filled with wine.

Cenred was beaming at him. “It is I who should thank you for being here for such an occasion,” he said, as though Arthur had planned for it. “Having such allies is important, one king to another.”

Arthur stammered. _Allies_? Perhaps Merlin was right to think this a trap. Cenred certainly couldn’t be asking for an alliance. Their kingdoms had never been allies!

And yet, Arthur remembered, he was on a mission for unity. But was Cenred really a part of that? Once Morgana caught wind of this mutiny, she’d end it swiftly and viciously. Cenred was a king, all right, but a king to servants. A king in secret.

“Well, once you’re crowned, of course,” Cenred reminded him a little smugly, a shark-like grin coming to his face. Arthur remembered why they hadn’t been allies, apart from Cenred’s joining forces with Morgana to bring down Camelot. Cenred chuckled heartily. “Perhaps the stories got it wrong, Arthur. Maybe _I_ am the Once and Future King!”

Arthur forced a tight laugh in return. He looked across the fire, to where Merlin was a shadow dancing in the heat waves and flying embers, his eyes fixed intently on their table. “I know someone who’d have a thing or two to say about that.” 

“Oh, you don’t give yourself enough credit, Arthur,” Cenred said as two plates were laid in front of them. He gave quick smiles to the maids who had done it, and Arthur tried to do the same. He was quickly becoming uncomfortable with this whole situation, not because he had no idea what Cenred wanted from him. He’d had many meetings like those in the past, and had learned to navigate such conversations. Maybe it was because he was slightly jealous that Cenred, of all people, had been crowned before him.

“I’m certain any number of your people and committee members would lay down their lives for you to be crowned. You’ve become quite the king since I last saw you as prince of Camelot. As I’ve said, you have Morgana scared.”

Well, at least the question of what Cenred wanted from him was answered. He wanted a strong army. Farmhands and herders may have been loyal, but they were no match for the Neos. And Arthur was winning against them. Leave it to Cenred to side with the winners.

“Yes, speaking of my sister,” Arthur said, cutting into his meat, “I must admit, I never expected you to turn against her. She’d see it as treason that you’re even speaking with me.” 

“Treason,” Cenred scoffed, a shadow forming over his face. There he was, the Cenred Arthur remembered, not this jolly friend to the downtrodden. “Morgana and her sister took everything from me—my army, my kingdom, and even my life. I do what I must to survive with them now, and I will do whatever it takes to ensure the safety of my people. But I do not wish to see them succeed. I hate to think of what Essetir became after my death. Never again.” 

In truth, Essetir was fine after Cenred died. One of Cenred’s distant cousins claimed the throne. Lot had never been a friend to Camelot, but he kept to himself. He couldn’t afford wars, or much else. He wasn’t well liked in the kingdom because of how heavily he taxed the people, and all of the money went to rebuilding the army after the majority of its knights and soldiers perished when their blood spilled out of the Cup of Life. But, in general, Essetir survived, and Cenred wasn’t missed.

Arthur decided not to tell him any of this.

“I’m sorry they did that to you,” Arthur told him politically. It was a lie. Morgana and Morgause hadn’t tricked Cenred, not really. He knowingly made a pact with them. Anything that was the result of that was his own fault. 

Cenred waved it away. “What’s done is done. All that matters now is that they are defeated before their tyranny rules this land.”

“I couldn’t agree more. I promise you, Cenred, Morgana will not be victorious. My committee and I will find a way to ensure everyone made to suffer by her hand will one day live without fear.” He looked around at the merry celebration. “Your people included.”

Cenred gave a taut smile. Of course, he wouldn’t let Arthur have all the glory. He was these people’s king, and wanted to remain so. “Yes, _we_ will protect them. It is our duty to them as their leaders.”

Arthur looked around again, taking it all in. A thought struck him: during his coronation, he’d been titled the Twice Crowned. “And they know who you are? That you’re a medieval king come back from the dead? They _believe_ you?” he asked, half in scepticism and half in envy. He wished his own people would extend him such belief, though he knew he had their faith in other ways. Ways that truly mattered.

“Oh yes. You’ll find people here are much more willing to believe in the impossible than in the south. They’ve seen much, and the Neos have put them through many hardships. They believe, if a great evil such as Morgana can rise from the dead, a saviour can, too.”

In other words, Arthur thought, they were desperate. Hapless. It wasn’t such a far cry from those in the provinces, except these people were much more willing to admit it. Arthur’s people had too much pride, like their king.

“And you’re that saviour?” he asked with only scepticism now.

Cenred hummed thoughtfully. “I hope to be, for their sake.”

“And for the sake of your revenge.”

“I don’t deny it,” Cenred answered truthfully. “But, if my personal motives save my people’s lives, I cannot be all bad, as you think.”

He must have sensed Arthur’s doubt, because his eyes softened, and he said beseechingly, “I do care for them, Arthur. I hope, in time, you will see that.”

That, Arthur didn’t doubt.

“I care for them as you do your people, and the members of your committee. In fact, I believe I can be of some help to the provinces, Arthur,” Cenred proposed. He cleared his throat and put down his wine glass to focus fully on Arthur.

Arthur raised his brows up to his hairline, humoured, though he wouldn’t give that away. He was interested to know how Cenred could possibly help him. “Can you?”

Cenred didn’t pick up on Arthur’s thoughts. “Yes. My people and I must live in secret so long as we are under Morgana’s nose. But, I assure you, she doesn’t suspect a thing. You’ve done a nice job at distracting her, and she believes you are the king my people follow. I thank you for that.”

“I’m glad to be of assistance.”

“Our position in the Neo-Druid’s Territory allows us to know everything Morgana and her army are doing. We are in their homes, serving them their dinners; we are raising their crops and livestock they collect for food; we march with their soldiers; we know their every move. I myself have a close, personal relationship with the queen’s sister, as you know." 

Arthur tried not to curl his nose in disgust as he considered their close, personal relationship.

“The point is, you have no way of knowing what your enemy is up to,” Cenred went on. “ _I_ do.”

Arthur had to admit, it wasn’t a bad idea. Mordred had his spies all over the provinces, but Arthur had no such ways of gathering information. They had Merlin’s visions, but those were so sporadic and often up for interpretation; and Merlin always kept the information to himself anyway, a fact that frustrated Arthur to no end, especially because Merlin thought he was fooling him. Maybe it wouldn’t have been such a bad thing to have soldiers behind enemy lines, able to move as freely as ghosts.

But Cenred was a snake, and no deal came without a price.

“And what do you ask for in return?” Arthur wondered.

“The safety of my people,” was the answer. “For your army to back us. And for a seat on your committee so that our interests may be represented.”

The first part, Arthur had anticipated. The second term, however, left Arthur gaping. “You want to _join_ the union?” He never expected Cenred to bow to him. He must have been planning something.

“For the time being,” Cenred said, not giving his true intentions for the long-term away, “until we have reclaimed this land from the Neos.”

Arthur blinked away. A hundred thoughts tumbled through his head, all of them leading back to one question: Could he really trust Cenred?

He must have been quiet for too long, because Cenred asked, “What say you?”

Arthur hadn’t an answer for him. He needed to speak with his advisors before he made this deal, and he needed the committee to vote. Perhaps Winchesters could have accepted Cenred as an ally, but the committee should decide whether to put him in the union.

“I must confer with my committee first,” Arthur told him. It was a non-answer, but one every politician knew well. “You shall have you answer in time.” 

Cenred picked up his glass and said, the grin slithering onto his face again, “Well, let’s hope not _too_ much time.” He held his glass out. “Until then, let us toast new friendships.” 

Arthur nodded and clinked their glasses together. “And to new reigns,” he added. 

“I’ll drink to that.”

 

///

 

That night, they stayed in the village. Cenred had instructed his subjects to generously extend hospitality to their “welcomed guests,” and immediately people swarmed towards their group, clamouring to invite them to take a room in their homes for the night. 

Merlin and Arthur got a bedroom in a Meredith’s farmhouse not far from the village centre. The room was rustic and dingy, but quaint, and Merlin couldn’t complain. He’d slept in much worse places. The cast iron stove fitted into the main room downstairs produced enough heat to fill up the small house, and Merlin was toasty. The warmth made his tired eyelids heavy.

Arthur was across the room drying his hair with a damp towel. Meredith had drawn him a bath earlier that night, and he’d been soaking for at least an hour. Merlin was sitting in bed, trying not to notice how the freshly clean skin on Arthur’s lower back sparkled gold in the flickering lights of the gas lanterns and candles. 

“I still can’t wrap my mind around it,” Arthur said as he tossed the towel to the floor. “Cenred is a king again. People _wanted_ him to be their king.” 

Merlin breathed out a shallow laugh. He could hardly believe it himself. The people of Essetir hadn’t wanted him as king, and they didn’t have a choice. Perhaps the nobles and soldiers might have liked him, but the common people despised him. Hunith used to complain about him often, Merlin remembered, loudly and with complete disregard for whoever might have heard. Even when Cenred was still a prince, people would roll their eyes at the thought of a future when he became king.

He wondered how many eye rolls this future would have elicited.

“Guess so,” was all he could say.

“I suppose he did always care for the lives of his men. It may be his only redeeming quality,” Arthur pondered. “Maybe that’s what these people saw in him.” As he spoke, Arthur got into bed and laid back, resting his head on Merlin’s lap. He peered up and asked, “What do you see in him? Do you trust him?”

Merlin snorted. It was a ridiculous question. In the last life, Cenred had been their adversary. “Not even a little.”

“So, you don’t think he’ll make a good ally?”

 “I didn’t say that.” As Merlin thought about it, he combed his fingers through Arthur’s hair. Even damp, it was as soft as silk. “Morgause still trusts him, which means Morgana does. So long as he doesn’t reveal himself, he could be useful to us. But he’ll want something else in return.” 

Arthur hummed in agreement. “No, he won’t just settle for military aid. He’ll want land sooner or later.” Land they didn’t have at the moment. When the Neos were defeated, there would be land to claim, but Cenred could not have any of the provinces. There was a chance Cenred would try to claim the part of Wales where Essetir once was. The committee would not agree to that.

Merlin looked down at him. “Are you willing to fight the committee for that, should it come to it?” he asked severely. Arthur really needed to weigh the decision carefully.

He sighed heavily and shifted around slightly to get in a more comfortable position. “Hopefully it _won’t_ come to it, and Morgana will be defeated by then. Besides, it’s not like we have much of a choice. It’s as you say, we need him, and he needs us.”

“The enemy of my enemy.” Merlin didn’t like this at all. He didn’t think it was a trap laid out by Morgana anymore, but Cenred was underhanded and volatile in his own right. He’d betray Arthur, should it suit him. “We’ll have to keep a close eye on him.”

“I’m sure you’ll be suspicious enough for the two of us,” Arthur chided, though Merlin knew he agreed. Then, Arthur chuckled. “Cenred as king,” he said again, still unable to fathom it. “Crowned before _me_.”

Merlin rolled his eyes, like his mother before him. “I wouldn’t get too jealous. Look at the state of the people in the Neo Territory. They’re not exactly treated like human beings. Cenred is one of them, and he saw opportunity in that. People in their condition are always looking for someone to save them. The poor and downtrodden will flock to anyone that gives them a bit of hope. It’s the oldest story in the book." 

“Yes, but _you_ were hoping they’d flock to me.”

Merlin tightened his fingers and gave Arthur’s hair a firm pull. “They _will_ ,” he stressed. “They already are. It’s just, Cenred was closer here. Soon, they’ll learn who their real leader is.”

“He’s their king.”

“Yeah, and I told you, you’ll be emperor.”

Arthur snorted out a laugh. “Of course. How could I forget?”

Merlin leaned down and pressed kisses to Arthur’s lips. He ignored the strain the position put on his spine as Arthur’s hand cupped around his neck to hold him in place. Merlin smiled into the kiss, and still wore it when it broke.

Arthur’s eyes were hazy now, and they sparkled orange in the firelight. He reached up and traced Merlin’s chin with his index finger before moving up. He brushed at Merlin’s hairline. “I won’t have to be the only one wearing a crown, you know?" 

Merlin had averted his eyes. Clearly, it was a question Arthur had been meaning to ask, and his tone suggested he was so certain he’d get his way.

“I’d like to see you in a coronet. Gold, obviously.”

“Arthur,” Merlin whispered, but let himself trail off. He didn’t know how to phrase his refusal.

“What?” Arthur asked, suddenly exasperated. “It’s only right for my consort to have _something_." 

“I’m not your consort,” Merlin said at once, possibly more forcefully than he’d intended. It put a perplexed look on Arthur’s face.

“We’re married.”

“I know, but—.” Merlin sighed. How could he say it in a way Arthur understood? “But _you’re_ the king. You’re supposed to rule, not me. I don’t want that.”

Arthur narrowed his eyes. Merlin knew he wouldn’t understand.

“ _You_ don’t want it, or destiny doesn’t want it?”

Merlin wanted to say that it didn’t matter what he wanted, and it never had. He refrained, knowing it would only make Arthur angry. He didn’t mind not wearing the crown. He wouldn’t be comfortable in it; or at least, that’s what he told himself. Arthur was supposed to be draped in red and gold and velvet in sunny, airy halls; Merlin was meant to be sloshing in the mud in the forests and howling at the moon. Arthur was meant for the limelight; Merlin was meant for things Arthur should never see, monsters Arthur never need face.

Merlin was meant to take a backseat. This wasn’t his story. It never had been.

“I was never meant to be your consort,” Merlin said instead, hoping it would sum up his thoughts. The role of consort had been given to another.

In the grand scheme of things, he was nothing. Just air and darkness.

Arthur huffed. Despite Merlin’s efforts, he’d gotten angry anyway. “Yes, and I thought we agreed to damn that.”

“We did!”

Arthur’s eyes widened defensively. “Then, what’s the problem, Merlin?”

Merlin shrugged timidly. He didn’t want to get defensive. He wanted to shut down. That was a defence in its own right, he supposed. “I’m not . . ." 

“Not _what_?”

“I’m not worthy of it,” Merlin admitted.

Arthur’s expression hardened. He stared at Merlin unblinkingly for a long time before he demanded, “Worthy of the crown or worthy of me?”

Did Merlin really have to answer?

Arthur looked away and shook his head. For a moment, Merlin thought he might leave. Instead, he said, like he wanted it to sink in, “I want this, Merlin. _I_ want this. And I want _you_ to decide for yourself—not me, certainly not destiny. I don’t know what lies that dragon is filling your head with, but whatever they are, he’s wrong. You don’t have to hide anymore.”

He took Merlin’s hand between both of his and stroked the skin with his thumbs. He averted his eyes to them and continued, “Your unending list of flaws aside, you’re selfless, and brave, and I have always relied on your wisdom.”

A cold fist choked at Merlin’s throat. He blinked away, trying to clear his blurry vision. Arthur was wrong; he was so wrong.

“Those are the qualities of a fit consort,” Arthur told him, and gave his hand a squeeze. He placed it on his chest, over his heart. Merlin could feel it pulsing, real and alive and beating for him. “That’s who you are, Merlin. That’s the man I fell in love with.”

Merlin found himself smiling weakly, shakily. It was a nice thought, but that’s all it ever could be. He could not be consort. He wasn’t even meant to be Arthur’s husband. To agree might quicken the path towards the Crystals’ warnings. Every time Merlin closed his eyes, he saw Arthur’s corpse from his vision. He could never allow such a future to come to pass. He was already treading so lightly on the precipice.

“Arthur,” he whispered, “people like me—.”

Arthur wasn’t interested in how that sentence ended. “ _What_ people like you?”

Merlin faltered. He knew the answer. Morgana. Mordred. Morgause. Their magic, their pain, their sadism. The same potential plagued his soul.

He didn’t say it. He couldn’t have Arthur think that way.

And still, Arthur seemed to understand his meaning. One hand still holding Merlin’s, he brought the other to brush Merlin’s cheek. “You’re a good man, Merlin.”

Merlin hadn’t intended to scoff, but he hadn’t expected the proclamation—especially from Arthur. He hadn’t the control to fight it down.

“You, handing out compliments? What’s the occasion?” he joked, trying to recover.

Arthur set his jaw severely. “I mean it,” he said, sounding almost aggravated.

It made Merlin weary. _Arthur_ was a good man. He always saw the best in people. He always trusted others too swiftly, and it never occurred to him they could have their own agendas. 

Arthur was a good man. So, Merlin couldn’t afford to be.

He tried not to think about it. His bones felt heavy every time he did.

“I don’t think that’s true,” he heard slip out of him. 

“I know it is,” Arthur told him, adamant. Merlin didn’t answer. One of them had to be optimistic.

Arthur sighed and let his hand fall from Merlin’s face. “Just promise me you’ll think about it?”

Merlin didn’t need to think about it. The crown was Arthur’s, not his. But, to placate Arthur, he nodded shallowly. “I’ll think about it.”

Arthur squinted his eyes, deciding whether or not to believe Merlin. Apparently, he decided to. “Good.” _Good_. His tone had a litany to it, as though the matter they’d discussed had been a light one.

He sat up, reached for the lantern, and turned off the gas. The room sank into shadow. “Now, we’d better sleep. We’ve a long trip ahead of us.”

It had already been a long trip. Merlin was happy for some rest. He slid further under the blankets and tried to turn to his side so Arthur couldn’t see his face. 

Arthur had other plans. He glided his palm across Merlin’s stomach until his fingers fit into place in the divots of Merlin’s ribcage. He nibbled at the shell of Merlin’s ear.

“Didn’t you just say we should sleep?” Merlin reminded him, even though the heat he felt was no longer from the stove. He wanted to forget about their conversation, and he wanted Arthur to forget. It would be easy to slip back into comfort. They deserved a little relaxation, even if just for a night.

“Yes,” Arthur admitted. “I also said we had a long trip. Who knows when we’ll next have a bed to sleep in?” He nodded to the door. “Or privacy.”

Merlin chewed at his lower lip and gave Arthur his full attention. Arthur made a very good point.

“Okay,” Merlin told him. “But I get to go first.”

Arthur’s eyes lit up like a dog with a bone. “Deal!” And he disappeared beneath the covers.

 

///

 

They left Cenred’s camp the next morning when the sun was only a glimmer on the horizon. Merlin drove for a while, having pitied Wallace enough to give him a break. However, he couldn’t keep it up for long. Focusing on driving and extending his magic to look out for Neo patrols was taxing, and he was already exhausted from the night before.

Arthur may have been able to forget their conversation, but Merlin hadn’t. It kept him awake all night, tossing and turning and watching Arthur breathe. It was a sight that never got old. Sometimes, he still fought to keep himself awake at night just to see it. The previous night, however, it hadn’t been intended, and no amount of sleeping pills swallowed did much good.

Behind the wheel, he battled to keep his eyes open, and the car kept drifting to the battered shoulders of the road. When he nearly nodded off, Arthur shouted at him to pull over so Wallace could resume his duties. The burst of adrenaline it gave Merlin only lasted until he curled up in the backseat. Gwaine sat in the front passenger seat, finally getting his chance to be navigator again, and Merlin fell asleep so quickly he couldn’t remember the car pulling off the side of the road. 

But his sleep wasn’t an easy one. In place of the road was Morgana. He saw her standing atop a tower. Winchester was spread out before her, plumes of black smoke rising from a point near the forest in the distance and from the place the Great Hall stood. She watched it with victory glinting her vision.

Merlin saw himself step onto the tower, his expression a mask of ferocity.

Morgana did not turn to him, but she realised his presence. “At last, it’s time,” she said. She held out her palm upright and spoke a few words of the Old Religion. A brutally bright white orb blinked into existence and grew like a star her hand. She nearly winced at the light, but Merlin didn’t. It pulsed through him, warming up his cold hands and putting life back into his chest.

She turned. “Are you ready, Emrys?” she asked, her brow raised in a challenge. A red, razor-thin smile gashed across her face.

A massive shadow streaked across the tower, and moved on to send ripples across the city. Dagnija swooped lower and spewed flames onto the streets, roasting buildings and all their contents. 

“I’m ready to claim what’s mine,” Merlin said, stepping further into the room. 

“And so you shall.” 

Her eyes glowed amber, and the ball of light lifted from her palm. It rose high above the tower, glowing in circumference. It shone so bright, it might have been mistaken for the sun, despite the overcast day. 

Morgana held out her hand. Merlin moved next to her and took it in his. Instantly, he felt her magic mix with his. They intertwined and settled beneath each other’s skin. It made his irises burn. Never had he let such power loose, and never had he felt better.

He focused their power on the orb, willing all the energy of the Old Religion towards it. The magic of the world flowed through him, its beacon, as he forced it to loan its power to the weapon.

The orb grew and grew until its light overwhelmed his senses. The air hummed violently. He was blinded. The only thing solid was Morgana’s hand in his.

Finally, they’d have their new world.

Merlin started awake to find his face buried into Arthur’s shoulder. He jumped away at once, crowding himself against the car door as though he had a disease he desperately could not let Arthur contract. 

He looked down at his pallid, shaking hands, and then up at Arthur. Arthur looked back at him with confusion and concern—and fear. His eyes were wide and his face drained of colour. “Merlin?” he asked, leaving the rest of the question hanging in the air. 

Merlin tried to control his breathing. He couldn’t. 

It couldn’t be real. It had to have been a nightmare. He’d never betray Arthur.

His flesh prickled in an internal chill until every inch of him ached. 

Is that the road they were headed down, if Merlin agreed to be consort? Was it inevitable already? 

He felt everyone’s eyes on him, but couldn’t break from Arthur’s. That, combined with the motion of the car, made Merlin think he’d be sick.

Wallace was looking back at him in the rearview. “Everythin’ alright back there—Shit!”

There was a series of loud bangs, like gunfire. Before Merlin could process it, he’d been pulled down into Arthur’s lap, with Arthur draped over him like a shield. The car spun out of control, jerking violently and squealing against the gravel. It came to a halt, a cloud of dust and dirt settling around it. 

When everything went still, Merlin realised how tightly he was gripping Arthur’s leg.

“Is everyone alright?” Arthur asked, straightening out, his voice stern and authoritative. 

There was a chorus of groans and affirmations.

“What the hell was that?” he barked to Wallace.

Wallace grunted and slammed his door open. He hopped out of the car. Slowly, the others did the same. Merlin coughed and waved away the clouds of dirt falling around him. He looked at the back tyre. It was in shreds, a long skid mark burned into the tar behind it. He turned to the front tyre and found it in the same condition. He had no doubt the other two were in similar shape. 

A few feet behind the car, a strip of traffic spikes lie on the road, rubber hanging from its teeth.

Wallace came around from the other side of the car, Leon and Percival in tow. “Yup. Tyre’s are blown,” he said, flapping his arms against his side. 

“Yes, we can see that,” Arthur bit out.

“They must have been set up to stop the Neo patrols,” Percival reasoned. To Merlin, it didn’t make any sense. They must have been far from Loweswater by now, and Cenred wouldn’t already be so brazen against the Neos. However, before he could question it, Arthur spoke again. 

He directed the question to Merlin. “Can you fix them?”

Merlin paused, not so much considering the question as trying to find the gentlest way to phrase his response. He ended up with the harsh reality of, “No. They’re destroyed.”

Arthur grunted. “Useless.” Merlin didn’t know if he was referring to him or the tyres, but it was a tyre that Arthur kicked.

“Why weren’t you watching the road?” he shouted accusingly at Wallace and Gwaine, both of whom opened their mouths to argue. 

“Arthur, I don’t think that will do us any good,” Lancelot stepped in to diffuse the situation before it got out of hand. Merlin was glad for it, especially because neither Gwaine nor Wallace were to blame. He was. He’d distracted them. Everyone knew it, including Arthur.

“So, what do we do now?” Elyan posed. “We can’t turn back.” 

“No,” Arthur agreed. “We must keep going—on foot, if we have to.”

No one said anything. Merlin looked around at the miles of vacant hills on all sides. Of course, the journey would have to be on foot. They weren’t exactly flush with options. It didn’t mean he liked the idea.

“We can’t just walk through Neo territory, Arthur,” he said, but he lacked a better idea. Whether they remained still or began moving, they were sitting ducks. 

“We’re not in Neo territory,” Wallace said. “We passed into Dumfries and Galloway about an hour ago.”

Merlin shook his head, suddenly discombobulated. How long had he been asleep? “We’re in Scotland?”

“Ever observant,” Arthur dismayed.

Merlin looked down, scolded. It had been centuries since he let Arthur’s insults get to him, if they ever did. And yet, he felt like he’d deserved it. Maybe he _was_ an idiot. 

He heard Arthur sigh, and saw him put his hands on his hips. “We keep going,” he commanded. “One of us will have to go back to Winchester and tell the committee our trip will take longer than expected. Wallace—.” 

“Me?” Wallace looked scandalized. “Why _me_?”

“Because you’re the newest,” Gwaine told him.

“Because you know your way better than the rest of us,” Arthur corrected, shooting Gwaine an impatient glare. “You know what roads to avoid.”

Wallace scoffed and readjusted his stance into something more defensive. “You want _me_ to _walk alone_ through _all_ of _your_ sister’s territory?” he asked, pronouncing every syllable. “No thanks, pal.”

Arthur breathed out like he didn’t have time for any of this. “For god’s—Make your way back to Loweswater. Get a horse from Cenred.” 

“Why don’t we all do that, and then head to Rosewood?” 

“We’ll lose days that way,” Arthur told him.

“Sire, perhaps he’s right. We still have the Wastelands before us,” Leon advised.

“We’ve been through worse,” Arthur said, adamant. “We can do this. We have no choice. Take what you can carry.”

Everyone nodded, accepting it. They moved back to the car and began grabbing their bags and rations. They took out anything they didn’t deem necessary. 

In the interim, Lancelot sidled up besides Merlin and whispered, “Are you alright?”

Merlin looked away from his big eyes, averting his gaze to the tight line of Arthur’s shoulders and he worked. He hated lying to them both.

“It was only a nightmare,” he said guiltily. 

Whether Lancelot believed it or not, he didn’t say. He pressed his lips into a sorrowful line and clapped Merlin on the shoulder in support.

Minutes later, they parted, the knights trekking after Arthur on his way north, and Wallace heading back south.

 

///

 

Gwen had been up for most of the night pouring over the map of Winchester, as she tried to find the right location for the execution of her plan. The next day, she rode out to the small village on the outskirts of the city. It was a few kilometres from the English Channel, and the winds kicked up over the cliff face to add a chill to the air. 

The village itself was in ruin. The hooves of Gwen’s horse clunked against the overgrown roads as it trotted through. The buildings weren’t in very good shape, either. The walls or roofs of some of the houses had crumbled or caved in, and the storefronts of the shops were busted in scattered glass. The village was unsalvageable. No one would be able to live there in its current state.

It was perfect.

Another set of hooves sounded in Gwen’s ears as Simmons became level with her. Together, they overlooked the ruin before them. 

“Will you tell me what we’re doing here now, Councilwoman?” Simmons asked.

Gwen considered scouting out the location before taking Simmons along, but it turned out she didn’t have to: the village was worse than she thought. The damp sea winds had destroyed everything without people to keep up with it. 

“More and more groups are seeking refuge in Winchester every day,” Gwen began. “We will continue to welcome them, but the space we can offer has its limits. I fear the city is already filled the capacity. It is time we began relocating those we can to a more suitable place.”

Simmons look around sceptically. “This isn’t suitable for the rats to live in, Gwen, let alone people seeking shelter.”

“Now it is, yes,” she agreed. “But I do not speak of the civilians. My plan is to relocate the army.”

To this, Simmons interest was piqued, so Gwen continued, “The city is no place for the soldiers. The parks and football pitches are small, and beyond them, there are no grounds large enough for training. The armoury alone takes up more space than we have, space we could use for flats. There is no doubt the army requires special training and living facilities. If we don’t give it to them, we will be limiting their potential.” 

“You want to build a military base? _Here_?” Simmons interpreted.

Gwen nodded sternly. “The village is large enough for everything the soldiers and their families require. What’s more, it’s not far from the city. Should we need to mobilize the army quickly, they can be in Winchester within a couple of hours.”

Simmons appeared thoughtful, but unconvinced. “It will cost a lot of money to knock all this down and build something new,” she pointed out. “More than we have. And I can’t see Brown coughing it up to build a facility anywhere outside of Exeter.” 

“Brown may be hard-headed, but he backs down when confronted,” Gwen told her. She had already considered Brown’s objection to the project. “He has yielded to what the rest of the committee has voted in the past. If the vote in unanimous, he will not put up a fight.”

Simmons rolled her eyes and scoffed, “A war hero who’s afraid of confrontation. Have you ever heard of anything so ridiculous?”

Gwen chortled a little at this. Beneath her, her horse began to sway as something caught its eye. She pulled the reins to keep it in place. Now was not the time for distraction; Simmons was so close to agreeing to the plan.

“The construction itself will create jobs for the new citizens of Winchester,” Gwen continued on. “Not just the building of the facilities—but for an irrigation system and electrical grids. It will be seen as a priority to ensure the army has proper living conditions. Once we find a way of getting electricity this far from Winchester, we can easily give the same benefits to the farmers outside of the city.” 

Simmons’ eyes found hers, and she looked more than interested at the prospect. Gwen knew she would be sold by the idea of better living conditions for the farmers. 

“I’m proposing this project at the next committee meeting,” said Gwen. “I need to know I have your support if we are to convince Brown of a loan.”

Simmons’ horse trotted a little further down the road, as though she were inspecting the area further. Gwen watched her, allowing Simmons all the time she needed to make up her mind. On the outside, she remained cool and collected, not letting her companion know of the buzzing nervousness under her skin. 

Finally, Simmons turned her horse around and inquired, “Why take me all the way out here? Any one of the other committee members has more military experience than me.”

“This is true. They are soldiers—and we are at war. The fight is all they see during times like these. But you are not a soldier, Prime Minister. You are a politician. You see beyond the war, to the problems at home. You understand the importance of long-term plans.”

Simmons bit her lower lip and averted her gleeful eyes, trying to hide how flattered she looked. Gwen’s chest swelled with pride. She knew Simmons was on her side.

“I will speak to the others about the proposition,” she promised. “As you said, they’re soldiers. It should be easy to convince them of building a military base.”

Gwen bowed her head slightly in thanks. She knew Arthur would be overjoyed by the project. He would certainly be for it.

She peered around the ghost town again, and built up the new facility in her imagination. Soon, it would come to be a reality.

“I thank you for your support,” she told Simmons. “Let us return to the city before we both freeze to death.”

They both turned in the direction from which they came and trotted back towards Winchester.

 

///

 

The night before they entered the Wastelands, their group stayed in the vacant inn of a village along the border. They used the rest of the money on them for provisions and water bottles for their journey, but still ended up with small rations. Water wasn’t easy to come by so close to the Wastelands. Arthur tried to buy a horse for the trip, but the village’s only beast was an old mare that looked as though she wouldn’t last the excursion.

As usual, the knights tried to make the best of it. They sung old songs and told stories of what they saw on their battles and expeditions around the provinces. If Arthur closed his eyes, he could image the clink of chainmail as they rustled in their seats around the inn’s dinner table.

Except, Merlin was being uncharacteristically quiet. Or, at least, it was uncharacteristic of the Merlin of old, who sung and spun tales as well as any knight of Arthur’s Table. However, even for the man Merlin was today, there was a glum shadow over his face. He tried to push a smile onto his lips, but his gaze was distant and empty. 

Arthur knew the dream Merlin had in the car spooked him, and he worried it was a prophecy from the Crystals. However, later that night when Arthur asked after it, Merlin shrugged him off. It only irritated Arthur. If there was something Arthur should be concerned about, he really wished Merlin would tell him instead of shutting down and pushing him away all the time. They couldn’t afford Merlin’s depression to come on at the moment, especially with what they were trying to achieve in Scotland. 

They both went to bed perturbed, and maybe Arthur was a bit harsh the following morning when they woke up early and began their journey into the desert. His temper was quick, and more than once he snapped at his men to keep moving when they wished to stop for a break.

A mixture of things caused Arthur’s mood: Merlin’s attitude, the festering wound of Merlin’s previous rejection to be consort, and the cold chill of their surroundings. A brittle wind kicked off the compact, cracked dirt and the rocky terrain of the torn motorways weren’t easy to navigate. With Gwaine at the helm, they had with them a map, a compass, and the dilapidated street signs to guide their way, but other than that, they were travelling blind.

Slowly, the grass and plant life thinned and receded, but for the longest time Arthur could see it on their backs. He didn’t realise how much that comforted him until he looked over his shoulder to find nothing but grey on the horizon. It was the same in all directions. From that point on, he kept his eyes forward, towards the north.

Two days passed much the same, and by the third, the songs and stories had stopped. Everyone was irritable, not just Arthur, and everyone was silent, not just Merlin. The only sounds were the whistling wind and clattering teeth. The sky above them was subdued and overcast, and the sun was a pale disk that provided minimal light and heat.

The night was even more frigid. It descended upon them quickly, blue and dense. They made camp on the side of the road, and Arthur tried to grab whatever sleep he could until it was his turn to keep watch.

However, sleep eluded him on such cold, brittle ground, and he relieved Elyan nearly an hour before his watch was meant to end. The frosted dirt was as hard as rock, and there was nothing else for as far as the eye could see in all directions.

The earth was dead. Not a bud nor blade of grass had been seen in the Wastelands for a decade. The only indication that there was ever any life there were the decomposing tree trunks, some still rooted into the ground and sticking upright wit eerie menace. Arthur had seen plenty of documentaries about nuclear bombs, and what they did to nature. He recalled one piece of footage of a forest of trees in the blast zone lighting on fire as quickly as a box of matchsticks, and snapping as easily as toothpicks. He wondered if such a thing had happened to this place.

They’d passed by the outskirts of what once used to be Glasgow in the distance earlier that morning. The skyline looked more like crooked decaying teeth than a cityscape. Arthur imagined what the state of the infrastructure must have been. In his mind’s eyes, it was in such ruins that not even spectres wished to reside there anymore. It wasn’t even a ghost town. It was a cobweb.

A gust of wind breathed through the air, causing the wisps of clouds above to trudge along the sky and reveal the blinding curve of the moon. Arthur’s spine rattled, and he pulled his coat tighter around him. His fingers were numb through his gloves, and he was without a fire to warm them. The wood around them burned too quickly to sustain a campfire, and Arthur didn’t trust drawing attention to them in such an exposed place, anyway.

He regretted relieving Elyan so early. Despite his insomnia before, at least he was able to huddle against Merlin to share a bit of warmth. He’d left the blanket with Merlin, who shivered nonetheless in his sleep. 

Without singing insects or the crackling of kindling, Merlin’s teeth chattering and Gwaine’s snoring were all Arthur heard.

Desperately, he rubbed his palms together and huffed a breath onto them, hoping to return the feeling to them. It worked for about a moment, until the breeze, so icy it might have been a tangible thing, picked up again.

Suddenly, Arthur heard something else. It was a soft, elusive sound that he couldn’t quite pinpoint at first. Someone was whispering. The sound was low and distant. At first, Arthur thought he was imagining it. But then it came again, and Arthur jumped to his feet. He grabbed his sword from where its point was planted in the dirt, and held it at the ready as he scanned the area.

He didn’t see anyone. It would have been impossible for anything to sneak up on him unless they were invisible. The noise shifted and shuddered, becoming as breathy as a sob. It was still quiet, and didn’t sound like it was coming from the same plane of existence.

Arthur wondered if it truly was a ghost.

And then he heard his name whispered.

“No. Arthur . . .” 

The defensiveness in Arthur’s shoulders slackened, but his jaw tensed in something akin to sorrow as his gaze drew back to Merlin. It wasn’t a threat, only a nightmare. Arthur briefly considered that it might be a prophecy, but he doubted it. Merlin stuttered and talked in his sleep like he always did when he had a normal bad dream. 

Arthur paced towards where he was laying and sat next to him. Merlin’s brow was pinched, and his shoulders quaked in soft gasps. His fingers twisted against the fraying edges of the blanket, and the pale moon glistened off the dampness on his cheeks. He kept muttering incoherent words.

Perhaps it was the nighttime settling into his tired muscles, but Arthur no longer had it in him to be angry with Merlin.

He cupped a firm palm to Merlin’s shoulder. “Merlin,” he said clearly, hoping the sound of his voice alone would calm him. Merlin continued to quaver. Arthur’s hand moved upwards to stroke through Merlin’s hair. He leaned in to his ear and whispered, as he had done every time Merlin dreamt disquietly, “I’m here.”

Merlin took a last sharp inhale before settling significantly. Arthur straightened out again and continued his watch, but he did not move from that spot. His fingers continued to idly play with the tangled waves of Merlin’s hair. The close proximity warmed Arthur’s extremities, if only a little.

A few silent minutes passed before Arthur realised Merlin was muttering something again. He couldn’t make out the words, but only because he didn’t understand the language. Beneath their lids, Merlin’s eyes flickered in sleep, and dim flashes of gold illuminated his long lashes. It stilled Arthur’s hand.

Worried Merlin might harm someone, Arthur’s wide eyes flittered around frantically for whatever Merlin might be doing. His gaze zeroed in on something small poking from the ground between his boots. It hadn’t been there only a moment before, Arthur was certain of it.

A dandelion.

Arthur leaned forward and touched the soft yellow bud. He ran the stem gently between two fingers, careful not to pluck it. He didn’t realise his cheeks were aching with a grin until a breath of amazed laughter escaped him.

Merlin continued to murmur ancient words, and patches of grass sprouted from the cracked dirt as though they wished to be closer to hear him better. Wildflowers bloomed impossibly in the cold moonlight. Soon, a field of colour had cropped up around them like an oasis, an island in the middle of a dead sea. 

Arthur couldn’t stop himself from drinking it all in. His lips hung parted and his breath fell silent as he took in his changed surroundings.

Next to him, Merlin had stopped talking in his sleep. When Arthur noticed this, he gaped down at Merlin more breathlessly than he ever could the impossible field. Arthur did not wake him, nor did he wake anyone else to share in the wonder. He wanted to revel in it in solitary just for a little while longer. He wanted it to be just for him—because it _was_ just for him. 

Just like everything else Merlin had ever done.

Arthur put his hand back on Merlin’s hair and brushed through it again. He shuffled a little, settling in, and as he did so the grass, as sharp and fresh as springtime, prickled his legs through his jeans.

He took the time to imagine what everyone else’s reaction might be when they woke up and discovered the new terrain. Mostly, he thought of how Merlin might react, to know what he’d created from a nightmare.


	7. Chapter 7

At sunrise, Merlin awoke to Gwaine shaking his shoulder in haste. “Merlin, wake up!” he’d called. At first, Merlin had misread the urgency in his tone as danger. He sprang up, adrenaline putting him on high alert. His magic leapt to his fingertips, ready for action.

And then he recognised Gwaine’s tone for what it was: exuberance.

Merlin hadn’t understood it. He’d gone to sleep in a desert, but he’d woken up in a field. The grass beneath his boots crunched with dew and frost. It shouldn’t have existed. He thought he was dreaming.

That was until he took in a deep steadying breath, and reminded himself to listen to the magic woven into the earth. It filled his lungs, lighter than air, and made him weightless. The world was thrumming and vibrant, waiting to come alive again. Merlin knew at once that he was the reason for the sudden bloom. As the Old Religion’s magic continued to flow through Avalon, it spread through the earth—through Merlin. Gaius had been right. 

He’d brought enough magic to the Wastelands to bring it back to life. Maybe he could focus the Old Religion’s power elsewhere, too, to spread to the world.

In a gut reaction, it worried Merlin. The Old Religion working through him had driven him mad before. What if it happened again? His fears subsided when he spotted Arthur, knelt down and running his fingers gently along the soft tops of the wildflowers. It gave Merlin cause to walk to the edge of the field, where the land was still cracked and dry, and place his palm to the dirt. He summoned all the magic he could find buried under the surface and let it free. 

The surge of power rushing through him knocked the air out him like a punch to the gut. He was thrown back a few paces, and stumbled to stay upright. But it was worth it. Splashes of colour sprouted up as far as the horizon, where it met the lavender sunrise on the crests of the hills. A few of the spidery trees that had managed to stay upright budded.

Merlin laughed—a small and breathless thing. His chest filled up, a balloon on the brink of exploding. Arthur appeared beside him and clapped him hard on the back in a job well done. And then Merlin only had eyes for him. He watched Arthur’s profile light up as his eyes flittered this way and that, taking in the new birth of the world.

It was part of Arthur’s kingdom. It should be beautiful.

When they packed up camp and continued on, Merlin kept the magic flowing through the Wastelands. With each push, it reached further towards the distant mountains. 

By the second day, Merlin’s strength had completely drained. While the world was vivacious in colour, he was certain his skin had gone pallid. His muscles were heavy and his eyelids fluttered, fighting to close in sleep even as he walked on. At some points, reality seemed very far away. Conversations were just echoes in his head, and the wind on his skin was numb. He’d shake the fog from his mind and realise he couldn’t remember a single thing that happened for an hour.

“You need rest,” Lancelot had worried at one point, but at least he had the good sense to whisper so Arthur couldn’t overhear. He handed Merlin a bottle of water, which Merlin sipped sparingly, despite his dehydration.

Merlin merely shook his head. He was determined not to leave a single patch of desert. They still had days to go before they reached the Silver City, and not enough rations to sustain themselves. In the Wastelands, Arthur and his men would expire. If Merlin could provide them with fruits and water. He could stop the frigid cold and bring the warmth of springtime. He could keep them alive. All of it while healing the earth. All of it while making Arthur happy. 

That night, Merlin didn’t remember setting up camp or cooking supper. He didn’t remember falling asleep; but, when he woke up, it was beneath the shade of an oak that looked as though it had been there for a century. It hadn’t been. That much, Merlin remembered. 

It rained the next day, as the freshness of the earth hastened through the seasons, trying to catch up with rest of Britain at the tail end of spring. A torrential downpour flooded the grass. Boots slipped and skidded on the sodden soil. Their drenched backpacks were too heavy to carry. The group lasted three miles before finding a village overgrown with thick ivy and blossoming roses and took shelter in one of the homes.

In the dancing light of the hearth drying their shoes, Arthur unfolded a map and obsessed over routes they could take to make up for lost time. In frustration, he barked at Merlin to lighten the rain so they could continue on. Merlin tried, but to little effect.

“Arthur, it’s getting too late to go any further anyway,” Elyan amicably defended after Merlin felt particularly scolded. “We’re all tired. The rest could do us good.” 

It certainly did Merlin some good. Warm and dry, despite the leaks in the ceiling, he slept through the night. Arthur woke them up before sunrise to move out into the overcast skies that burned off as the day progressed.

“I could have sworn we’ve passed that sign already,” Percival pointed out as the sun burned high overhead. Merlin glanced at the sign in question. It was a speed limit sign with two vines spiralling around the post. It looked just like every other of its kind.

“Those are all over,” Leon told him.

“Next to the same tree?” said Percival, pointing surely.

Maybe Percival was just getting into Merlin’s exhausted head, but Merlin was suddenly just as certain he’d seen the exact spot before. He stopped dead, abruptly halting Lancelot behind him in the process. He wasn’t moving another step unless it was in the right direction.

“Don’t tell me we’ve been going in circles,” Arthur groaned, his anger already mounting. He rounded to Gwaine at the front of the group. “Have you been reading the map wrong?”

“Hey! I’m reading it perfectly!” Gwaine argued. He pulled it out of his pocket and unfolded it as though to prove his point. However, when he looked at it hard, he willowed. “Oh,” he said softly.

“Gwaine!” Arthur bit out through his teeth.

“Some navigator you are,” Elyan groaned.

“He used to do this on patrols, too,” Percival said, slightly more teasingly than the others. Merlin had never actually seen the man annoyed. He always kept a level head.

Merlin’s head way anything but level. His legs burned so hotly that the pain made his eyes water, and his boots were digging calluses into his ankles. The thought of it being for nothing made him want to shout.

“Well, if you’re so good at it, you do it!” Gwaine huffed back at Percival.

“Enough,” Arthur ordered. He stomped towards Gwaine and ripped the map out of his hands. He swivelled it at different angles and narrowed his eyes as though he didn’t know which way was up. “We need to catch our bearings. We can still make up time before sunset.” 

This could take a while.

Merlin dropped his pack on the grass, suddenly relieved by the weight off his shoulder. He rolled them to get the feeling to return.

“What are you doing?” Arthur demanded as Merlin knelt next to the bag.

“If we’re stopped here, we might as well eat. _You_ didn’t give us the chance to stop for lunch,” Merlin accused. His stomach growled as he fished for some of the apples in his bag. He’d feel better with some food in him.

“This isn’t a holiday, _Mer_ lin!” Arthur argued. “We can’t afford to lose any more time. We continue moving.”

“We need to eat. We’re all starving—and tired.”

“I don’t see anyone else complaining.”

For some reason, that was the final straw. 

Irate, Merlin jumped to his feet and managed to find the last of his energy to shout, “That’s because they _can’t_ tell you that you’re being a prattish, overbearing, domineering—!” 

“Shh!” Lancelot hissed, and the urgency in his tone silenced everything else. He whispered, “Listen.” 

Merlin did. He held his breath and strained his ears, but his more preternatural senses kicked in first. He felt the ground rumbling under his feet. The air was charged and hissing in warning. And then he heard something akin to thunder—ceaseless and growing closer. It was a stampede.

Suddenly, over the hill, a dozen riders emerged into view. Their horses kicked up dust as they sped towards their small group. Arthur and his men drew their swords, knowing it was too late to find cover. Merlin squared himself, letting his magic bubble to the surface.

As the riders drew closer, Merlin realised that all of them were carrying spears. They wore plated armour on their shoulders and tough tanned leather strapped around their torsos. The woman who road in front wore a heavy red cloak lined with brown fur despite the recent warm breeze. It kicked up in the wind like a banner flag.

The earth shuddered as the riders closed in on them. Swords were held at the ready, and the silver points of spears jutted out in defensive warning. 

In moments, the horses settled, encompassing their group on every side. “What’s your business?” a man said, his voice thick with the Highlands. His horse was to the left of the leader of the group.

“We mean you no harm,” Arthur said at the height of his voice. Even while trapped in a ring of sneering horses, he looked like a giant. “I am Arthur Pendragon of Winchester. I seek an audience with General Rosewood.”

He sheathed his sword, and signalled for the rest of his men to do the same. Merlin, however, kept on high alert. The clansmen may have been put to ease by the lack of visible weapons, but Merlin’s weapon was closer to him than his skin. He could arm it with the blink of an eye, and no one would ever see it coming.

Arthur counted on that, if things went south quickly.

“Arthur Pendragon,” the leader echoed. Her leather armour was adorned with etchings of vines and roses. A thick slash of red make-up cut across her eyes, concealing the wrinkles and age. A leather band, tucked into her greying hair, circled her head like a crown. “The General has not been told of your arrival.”

No. That wasn’t right.

Arthur hesitated. “We come as friends of Joseph Darby, President of the Midland State, a strong ally to the General. He sent a message weeks ago. It should have reached the Silver City by now.”

“There was no message,” said the second in command.

“There must have been. Darby sent it himself.”

“Whether he did or not, it wasn’t received,” said the leader.

“We’ve travelled all the way from Winchester, through the Wastelands, to see Rosewood,” Arthur said, keeping down his frustration and confusion. To Merlin only, he sounded weary. “I have a proposition for him. I believe it will beneficial for both sides.”

“You travelled through the Wastelands?” the second in commanded asked dubiously. “No one can do that and survive.”

“Don’t be so sure, Lieutenant Ferguson,” said the leader, looking beyond the group at the hills. “We entered into the Wastelands fifteen kilometres back.”

Ferguson gaped out at the green. The rest of the riders murmured incredulously.

“That’s not possible,” Ferguson said.

The leader did not respond to him. Instead, she turned her eyes back on Arthur. “I’ve heard of you. Rumour says you’re to be crowned king of the provinces, and that you’re command is the reason Britain is winning the fight against the Neos. I will take you to General Rosewood,” she promised, and Merlin’s shoulders finally dropped in relief. He could sense Arthur felt the same, though he never visibly flinched. 

“Ferguson, give these men some horses. They’ve walked far enough already,” she commanded. “The Silver City is a two hour ride from here, and only if we move quickly.” 

Arthur bowed his head gratefully as some of the riders dismounted. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” she advised, narrowing her eyes at him in an assessing way. “I believe the General would want to hear what you have to say. I hope your reputation proceeds you, Soon To Be King.” 

She pulled the reins of her horse and turned away. Now out of her sight, Arthur allowed himself to tense. He clamped his jaw and caught Merlin’s eyes, showing his nerves. Silently, Merlin tried to reassure him. It was hard to do when he was so uncertain himself. Once he saw Rosewood, he’d be able to get a better feel for the situation. 

He prayed the clans were as willing to help as Darby suggested. 

He mounted the horse offered to him, and set off with the rest of the group when the leader whistled for them to move out.

 

///

 

The Silver City was built on the ruins of Aberdeen. While tall glass and granite buildings still rose up to the sky, they were more spread out than Merlin had remembered from the last time he was there. Smaller buildings cropped up along the edges of the city, and a great granite wall was being constructed around the perimeter. They rode through its gates and through the streets, following the leader and her company.

It reminded Merlin somewhat of London, but without the pleasures of modern society. There was no electricity at all there, and everything appeared to be run by gas. The only modes of transportation were horses and bicycles, and he heard the banging of hammers instead of the whizzing of power tools around the construction site of the wall. The people wore a strange amalgamation of contemporary clothes and armour. It was a medieval city living in the carcass of a modern one. 

At one point, the North Sea came into view in the distance, and at last he realised why the scent of the air was thick with oil. A tar-black sheen floated atop the water, dirty barge boats cutting through it with constant pewter smoke puffing out of their engines, and the once golden sands of the beach were coloured dark with pollution. Camps made of wind-worn tents were speckled along the shoreline.

They were brought to a grand metallic-coloured building, dozens of towers spiking up along its wide length. There, in its brick courtyard, they dismounted.

“With me,” the leader said. She had been quiet throughout the entire trip.

She led them through the corridors until they reached a large council room that must have once been a lecture hall. A high desk, the tallest chair in the centre, which must have belonged to General Rosewood, was placed on a dais at the front of the room. Narrow windows and red walls stretched up to the high ceiling.

The council had already been convened. Every desk was occupied but for Rosewood’s. On either side of the high table, a group of councillors stood.

Arthur followed the leader to the centre of the room, and Merlin was right on his heels. Behind them, the knights filtered in. “Stay there,” the leader told them when they reached floor before the high table. Immediately, they halted. Merlin looked around, wondering after the General. He saw Arthur do the same.

The leader continued towards the high table and walked around it, until she was level with the red banner depicting three castle towers in a diamond shape that hung behind the General’s seat. She removed her cloak from around her neck and swung it onto the back of the chair. She sat.

Merlin blanched. 

“Arthur Pendragon of Winchester, you stand before the Grand Council of the Silver City, Commanders of the Scottish nations. Speak your business,” said the leader.

Arthur cleared his throat, still unsure what was going on. Still, he steadied himself and took a step closer to the table. “I request an audience with General Rosewood.”

Merlin wanted to slam his head against a desk, and he had plenty to choose from. How could Arthur be so thick?

“And you have her,” Rosewood said, narrowing her eyes in scepticism.

Behind Merlin, Lancelot exclaimed, “ _You’re_ General Rosewood?”

She pursed her lips, deepening the wrinkles around them. “Rose, surname Wood. I am Commander of the Silver Clan and General of this Grand Council.”

Next to her, Ferguson said suspiciously, “Do you not know who you were sent to speak to?”

Arthur’s shoulders tightened in embarrassment. “General, please, accept my sincerest apologizes. When President Darby spoke of you, he did not say—.”

“That a woman could lead?” she interrupted harshly.

“Not at all,” Arthur answered coolly. She did not know him, and she did not know his beliefs. 

“You just assumed I was a man.”

“It was a mistake. I shouldn’t have.”

She leaned back in her chair, never breaking eye contact with him. She drummed her fingers on the wood while surveying him, making a flat thrumming sound echo through the hall. “As I said, I’ve heard rumour of you,” she told him, “coming from all over the southern regions. You inspire fear in some and hope in others. They have names for you. The Once and Future King, Tamer of the Wild, King of the Reborn, the Spark of Life. I thought you were just a myth created by the English to keep hope alive against the Neos, to believe in a king returned.” 

Arthur shook his head. “I am not what those legends say about me.” 

“I’m not talking about the legends,” she said. “I saw what you did to the Wastelands. The Spark of Life, indeed.” 

Arthur half-glanced at Merlin, guilty to be taking the credit. Merlin didn’t mind. If his bringing the Wastelands back to life made Rosewood believe in Arthur, it was worth it. Besides, he was quite used to Arthur getting the glory for his achievements by now. At least, this time, he had the decency to look apologetic. 

“I hope to gain your trust in person, General, rather than because of the stories you’ve heard,” Arthur said. Merlin didn’t know why rumours were so bad, especially when they were favourable. But that was Arthur—even in Camelot, he wanted to show his friends and enemies who he was in person instead of them hearing about his deeds.

“Why?” came a voice with a much different accent than Merlin had heard thus far in the Silver City. To his ears, it sounded like it came from the Lowlands. From the group standing to the left of the high table, a woman stepped forward. She was young, probably in her mid-twenties. She had a muscular athletic build, and Merlin was willing to bet she was as tall as he was. Her dark hair was a voluminous mess of tangles and braids, and her eyes held the same brown colour. She wore a metal gorget of a simple design and a pauldron on her right shoulder, from which a tartan sash was draped. A tan leather jerkin and wrist cuffs were layered over a tight thermal shirt, above black jeans and boots. 

She regarded Arthur in a way that made Merlin very on guard, until her stare shifted to him. Then, it made him curious.

“So that you can rule us like Morgana Pendragon is trying to?” she went on, stoic fury in her voice, when she looked back to Arthur. “We will never bow to an English king.” 

“Nathara,” said Rosewood, silencing the woman. She said to Arthur, “Forgive the Commander. She leads the Dumfried Clan. The Neo-Druids have ravaged her lands. She has come before the council to request aid.”

“Then, we aren’t so different. Perhaps we can all help one another,” Arthur told both of them. Then, he looked at Nathara. “I’m looking for people to stand beside me, not kneel before me.”

Nathara crossed her arms and remained decidedly unimpressed. 

Rosewood, however, did seem slightly swayed. “You’ve come all this way to request an alliance?”

“Yes,” said Arthur. “President Darby and I believe—.”

“Yes, Darby,” interrupted Rosewood. “You keep mentioning him, and yet, I have no evidence that he actually sent you.”

Arthur sucked in a breath. “I don’t know what happened to the message he sent.”

Merlin did. There were many miles between Birmingham and the Silver City, and the Neos were right in the middle of it. They must have intercepted the message somehow. That was the only explanation. But, if Morgana knew they’d be travelling through her territory, why hadn’t she set a trap? Merlin warily thought of Cenred and Loweswater. That couldn’t have been an elaborate charade, could it? To what end?

Rosewood narrowed her eyes as though she shared Merlin’s thoughts.

“Then, I shall send my own message to the President and await his reply.”

That could take weeks. By the way Arthur’s posture shifted, Merlin knew he thought the precaution overdramatic; but he didn’t say so. “Of course,” he said in a way that suggested he very much didn’t appreciate being put under suspicion. “But, until then, please understand my men and I have travelled very far to meet you. I would like to prevent a wasted trip.” 

“So would I,” was the answer. “Which is why you and I will have dinner together tonight, Arthur. I want to hear what you have to say.” 

Merlin had to fight back a grin. He felt lightheaded with giddiness. The temptation in Rosewood’s gaze was a good sign. Arthur would persuade her to join their cause without Darby’s help.

“Until then, Ferguson will ensure you and your men will have a place to stay in the city,” she offered. 

“Thank you, General,” Arthur said, and he really meant it. He, too, was trying to hold back his emotion. “In the meantime, I would like to offer our services to your people. I’m told disease has claimed the lives of many of your people here. My consort—” 

Merlin wanted to smack him. 

“—is a very skilled physician. He can look at the patients, if you will allow.” 

Rosewood’s eyes flickered to Merlin. “What is your name, consort?”

Merlin wanted so badly to deny the title, but it wouldn’t help Arthur, who was probably only getting a feel for the word in his mouth when applied to Merlin. Merlin got a feel for it, too, and it tasted like danger.

“Merlin,” he answered, a little meeker than Arthur probably would have liked. 

“I see,” said Rosewood, and he knew she was wondering if his medical remedies had anything to do with magic. “I will have someone take you to the hospital after you’re settled.” 

“Thank you, General,” Arthur said again. 

Ferguson stood up to lead them out of the room. Again, Merlin caught Nathara’s eyes. She did not look away. Unyieldingly, she watched the group go.

 

///

 

A small girl of eleven sat on top of the bench in the examination room of the makeshift infirmary. It was located in what must have once been a real hospital, but hadn’t any working machinery, tools, or supplies of the pre-War world. Merlin held a penlight to the girl’s eyes, and her pupils sluggishly dilated as she looked into it. She had some inflammation, causing the whites of her eyes to yellow and redden with blood.

Lining the skin on her arms, hands, and neck were small, flat puss-filled boils, along with scars and scabs from where she’d itched them. The disease was still in its early stages, but it was spreading quickly. There wasn’t much Merlin could do for her except attach an IV filled with nothing but water to her arm and hope for the best. She was young, and otherwise agile. Maybe if her body kept hydrated, she could fight off the smallpox. 

Some of the other older patients were in much worse condition. The doctors had attempted leech and maggot therapy to eat away the corrupted flesh, but such treatments had their limitations. 

Merlin tried to make the little girl smile, and not show the sympathy he felt towards her. In reality, he knew there was little hope. She was the fourth person he’d seen that day with the same ailment, and a dozen more were on the verge of death in the ward.

In the end, he sent her on her way, making her promise not to pick at the pox anymore. She did promise, but he knew she wouldn’t keep it for long.

As the girl trudged out of the room, Merlin snapped off his gloves, went to the water basin, and dipped his hands. The water was still cool, but a thin layer of filth floated on the surface. He tried not to groan as he dried his hand on the damp cloth.

“You’ve seen this disease before,” a voice came from the open door. It made Merlin jump slightly, his magic along with him, as he spun around to find Nathara watching him. She had slipped in as silently as a fox, as was regarding him now with the same even stare she had during the attendance with Rosewood.

“Yes,” Merlin said, recovering. He did not mention that it had been decades since he last saw the smallpox virus in person. It was eradicated for many years, until it was used for biological warfare during the War. Some of the soldiers had contracted it when they were abroad, and brought it back to Britain. The vaccine was still common enough in the cities, when the Neos supplied it, but those recently born in Scotland never stood a chance against the disease.

Nathara strode further into the room, though Merlin would not have known it if he hadn’t seen her. She made as much sound as a snake gliding through water as she moved. Her arms crossed themselves over her armour. “Why aren’t you in dining with Rosewood and King Arthur? You are his consort.”

Merlin snorted and tossed the drying cloth back on the table. “I’m not his consort.”

She cocked her head to the side in a curious way. “You’re married?”

“Well, yes—.” 

“Then, you’re his consort.” 

Merlin grumbled. He’d had this argument too many times recently, and he always seemed to lose it. “I’m of more use here with the patients.”

She ran her finger across the workbench as though inspecting for dust, unafraid of the pathogens it may contain. She had probably been vaccinated against the disease as a child. She was old enough, Merlin reasoned, but only just. “Can you heal them?” 

“Not without a vaccine,” Merlin sighed, and ran a hand through his hair. Many of them would die if they didn’t get it soon. “Arthur will find a way to get it from the Neos, I promise. There’s still time.”

She rounded on him quite suddenly. “Not for them all.”

He held her stare, but couldn’t match the hardness in her eyes. “No.”

“But you can heal them,” she said, “with magic.”

Merlin was dumbfounded. He still wasn’t used to people knowing about his magic, especially complete strangers. He supposed he should have. Word of Arthur had travelled far and wide; Merlin should have expected tales of the king’s sorcerer to follow them. 

The sorcerer, not the servant. In Camelot, Merlin had so much ambiguity. He could slip through the cracks unnoticed. Most dignitaries didn’t even bother knowing his name. Not even Queen Annis, Camelot’s greatest ally, knew it. 

Things were different now. He was _known_ , and he hadn’t realised it until that moment. The shock of it made him anxious. He wondered if he could protect Arthur in the same way he once could without the vast camouflage of the shadows masking his every move.

It would be harder still if he _did_ become consort. It wasn’t a risk he could take, for more reasons than one.

“Many of them are beyond that point,” he excused, trying not to sound unnerved. Something told him it was unwise to show any amount of weakness around Nathara. 

She settled, seeming to accept his answer as though she hadn’t been very hopeful to begin with. She must have given up hope long ago. “The General does what she can for them. The virus plagues all the clans—even mine.”

“I’m sorry.”

She showed no weakness, either.

However, she had given Merlin the perfect opportunity to turn the conversation. He was interested in learning as much as he could about Rosewood, and who better to learn from than from one of her commanders? 

“President Darby hasn’t told Arthur very much about the General,” Merlin said gently, trying to ease into the conversation as though he were a trespasser in hostile territory.

“And the General knows nothing about Arthur, apart from the rumours. I’ve heard some of the clans people say there were stories about him, that he was some fairytale king of legend.” 

Merlin snorted. Had she been living under a rock all her life? “You don’t know the legends?”

She quirked a brow. “Do I look like someone who has time for fairytales?”

He decided it was best not to answer that. Still, he’d never met anyone who didn’t know at least a part of those fanciful stories, or the name of King Arthur. It was strange to think they got lost after the War this far north. The legends loaned some kind of comfort to Arthur’s followers, Merlin thought. They felt they knew him, and could trust him. And yet, those myths were so far from the truth, Merlin sometimes wondered if they’d be better off never having known the name Arthur Pendragon.

He wasn’t about to debate the topic. He wasn’t there to talk about Arthur, anyway. He needed to get the conversation back on track in a way that didn’t raise suspicion.

“The General seems to know them. They may have stuck with her, judging by her vision of unity. It wasn’t long ago that the Scottish nations were fighting amongst each other. What she’s done to unite you in such a short time is remarkable.”

Nathara crossed her arms again and shrugged. She began to pace. Merlin’s gaze followed her back and forth, surveying her. There was something about her . . . He was unable to place it. It had been so long since anyone had puzzled him like that. 

In fact, the last person who had puzzled him like that was Morgana.

“Rosewood has a brilliant mind for politics,” she said. In any other tone, it may have been a compliment. The way she said it made it sound like cold fact. “Her husband was leader of their clan. They shared a dream of uniting the nations, until the leader of the Innes Clan killed him. Anyone else would have gone to war in vengeance, but Rosewood took her husband’s place—and she did not. She married her daughter to the Innes leader’s son.” 

Merlin blinked, and found himself mirroring her crossed arms. He leaned his back against the medical bench. “That’s how she unified you? Political marriages?” 

“Not all of us,” was the answer. “That is how she won some of the northern clans. Rosewood’s youngest son was married to the first son of the Ross Clan. Her eldest became commander of their allies, the Urquhart Clan, after their leader died. As the forces brought together under Rosewood’s lead grew, the rest of us sought her help against the Neos.” 

“That’s why your clan joined the union?” Merlin interpreted.

Nathara stopped pacing. “Cyrus’ men slaughtered many in my clan.”

Merlin was glad he finally had her full attention. She already had enough reason to hate the Neos to join Arthur’s cause. Nathara had Rosewood’s ear. If Merlin could entice her towards Albion, perhaps she could convince Rosewood. 

“Their new leader is much worse than Cyrus,” Merlin told her, but she already knew. 

“Morgana Pendragon.”

Merlin nodded. She only scoffed and waved it away, too brave and foolish for her own good. “I’ve seen her power. She doesn’t scare me.”

“Well, she scares me.”

Nathara surveyed him with something close to perplexity again. Perhaps she couldn’t fathom him out, either. “Why? Her weapon can’t hurt you.”

How could she think so selfishly? She was a warrior, and a clan leader. If she wasn’t scared for herself, she should have feared for her people.

“I’m not worried about me.”

“Then don’t worry about me,” she challenged. “The weapon cannot harm me, either.”

He opened his mouth to argue, but then her words processed and halted him in his tracks. He clamped his jaw shut. “You’re a magician?” 

Wordlessly, she reached into her neckline and pulled out an amulet on a leather chord hanging from her neck. The rune was a pressed, dark metal circle with a sigil on it: an intricate design of eight lines, forked at their ends, spiking out from one circular centre like many hands on a clock; each line had three dashes through it, such as feathers on a bow.  “I practice hoodoo, like my mother before me, and hers before her. I grew up in the art.”

Merlin gaped. He leaned in to get a better look at the necklace. “That’s a rune for protection in battle.”

“I do not attribute my success to it alone,” she half-boasted. “But the protection it lends me gives me one less thing to worry about. I can focus on my skill while fighting.” 

Merlin’s eyes flickered up to meet hers. 

“I am Rosewood’s prized warrior.” No pride shown through on Nathara’s expression. It was another stone cold fact. “It is why I was chosen to be Commander of the Dumfried Clan after Cyrus’ army killed my predecessor.”

Merlin straightened out again. “Does she know you practice magic?”

“Yes. Many in her company are magicians,” Nathara said. “Rosewood trusts those who have pledged their allegiance to her. She takes whatever strength they have to offer and uses it for the good of the Scottish nations.”

Merlin considered, “She sounds exactly like the kind of ally we need." 

A shadow of a smirk slithered onto her face. It was the closest thing to an expression he’d seen on her. “Naturally. Now, all Arthur has to do is convince her of how useful of an ally he can be.”

Merlin worried at his lower lip. He prayed the meeting would go well. It was getting late, and Arthur would be on his way to it now. Maybe he should have gone with him, after all. 

“Don’t worry. Rosewood and Arthur share a vision, as you’ve said,” Nathara told him, but it didn’t sound the least bit comforting. “But don’t expect her to stand aside and let him rule over her. She still has one more daughter. Maybe you won’t have to be consort, after all.”

Merlin bristled, even though he knew he shouldn’t have. She was trying to get under his skin, nothing more. But, for some reason, she succeeded. 

And she knew it, too. 

Nathara seemed satisfied now that she had made him show weakness.

Merlin hated warriors sometimes.

 

///

 

Arthur was escorted to what looked like the skeleton of what was once an Italian restaurant. Half-full bottles of liquor sat on the shelves of a disused bar, and dusty tablecloths remained on tables that had been pushed in a line against the wall, their cushioned chairs stacked up high on top of them. Paintings of distance villas and grape vines lined the peeling burgundy walls, and green chandeliers hung lifelessly from the ceiling over where the tables must have once been set up.

He was taken past the main dining room, and into a room in the back. Only one long table was set up with two places of chipped porcelain plates and silverware. A platter with a silver lid rested before both plates. In the place of an electric light fixture was a chandelier with candles burning, wax dripping down their nearly spent stocks. 

Rosewood was already seated at one end of the table. The other place setting was in front of the chair two seats down from her right side. Arthur nodded in thanks at his escort, and the two were left alone. He remained standing long after the man had disappeared, waiting for Rosewood to invite him to sit. She said nothing, but rather stared at him for moments that might as well have contained lifetimes. 

Arthur shuffled a little, and walked around to the table to stand behind the place made for him.

“May I?” he asked permission, knowing this must have been some kind of test.

“It’s why you’re here,” Rosewood told him, giving no indication of whether he passed or failed.

Before Arthur fully settled in, Rosewood reached to the platter in front of them and lifted the lid to reveal a roasted chicken and potatoes beneath. The sweet scent of the poultry immediately arrested Arthur, and he realised how hungry he was. It had been days since he had anything but fruits, mushrooms, and the dried meats they packed. 

“Eat,” Rosewood said, framing it more as a command then an offering. “It’s no good discussing anything with an empty gut.”

Arthur couldn’t deny his appetite, so he took a few pieces of the carved meat and a single golden potato.

“That’s all? You’re supposed to be a king. Eat.”

The hesitation drained from Arthur. It was becoming clearer by the second that Rosewood was nothing like his colleagues in the provinces. She reminded him more of the kings and queens he knew in the days of Camelot. He forked more food onto his plate and immediately bit down on the meat. Rosewood, looking pleased, helped herself as he did so.

“Full disclosure, Arthur,” she said, ripping off a piece of a drumstick, “when I heard the stories of the warrior king of the provinces, I pictured you as less . . . blonde.” 

Arthur stopped chewing. Was she calling him pretty? He wasn’t sure if that was supposed to be a joke. However, when he glanced up, Rosewood’s eyes were sparkling with humour, even though she wore no smile.

“It doesn’t hinder my ability to rule, I assure you,” he answered, trying to be light. Maybe this was a good thing. Rosewood was joking, which may have meant she’d be more willing to form an alliance than Arthur first thought. Amongst her council, she acted as hard as iron. Maybe that wasn’t her true self.

“Or your ability to fight, it seems,” she said, sitting back in her chair and watching him again. She had eyes that made Arthur think she could see through him to the blood running in his veins. “Your army has done a good job at beating the Neos out of the provinces.”

Something told him she wasn’t humoured now. Her tone was stiffer than it had been before. He placed his fork down next to his plate as quietly as he could. 

“In fact, more of the bastards are starting to come north for a fight they think they can win.”

_Think_. The Neos were going into Scotland because they _knew_ they could win, and they _were_ winning. Most of the lowlands were now in Morgana’s possession. Arthur was diplomatic enough to not point that out; although, he realised he may have to use it later.

“It was never my intention to force the Neos into Scotland,” Arthur said honestly. “It’s unfortunate that your clans should have to suffer to keep the provinces safe, but I believe there’s another way—not just to force the Neos elsewhere, but to disband them forever.” 

She raised a brow, more in contemplation than incredulity. “I don’t believe that can be done.”

“It can if we come at them from both sides. If we combine our forces, we can divide theirs and back them into a corner.” 

Her head tilted gently to the side, and her gaze intensified. He didn’t falter under it. He leaned in towards her to keep her attention. “So far, they’ve had the advantage. They’re one force. Their attacks are planned, coordinated. There’s been no communication between the provinces and Scotland. If we can created our own stratagem together, we’ll be able to take on the Neos.” 

“You believe an army of immortal magicians can be taken down through proper organization?” she retorted, sounding unconvinced.

When she put it like that, it sounded awfully bureaucratic. More than anything, it felt like she was mocking him.

“I know what it takes to wage a war,” he defended. “So does President Darby, and many of those on my committee. It is our belief that combining our efforts will lead to mutual success.” 

Her eyes narrowed. “You keep saying Darby’s name like it’s some kind of key, but you can’t produce any evidence that he sent you. For all I know, you’re acting outside of your committee by coming here.” She laughed. “For all I know, you aren’t Arthur Pendragon at all.”

His shook his head, trying not to be sidelined by the comment. “I don’t know what happened to Darby’s message. But my coming here was his plan. He will tell you so.” 

She nodded, seeming to accept it. He didn’t think she actually believed he was lying, but that didn’t mean she hadn’t any reservations. Perhaps she didn’t want to join with the provinces, but it wasn’t like he was asking her to join the union. Scotland would remain under her rule.

“Over two hundred miles of wasteland rested between the bulk of my people and Neos. Thanks to you, the only thing keeping them back is gone. They can continue to come north, and I must hasten the construction of the wall around the capital city because of that,” she said with a hint of accusation in her voice. “Why would I side with someone who made it easier for my enemy to succeed?” 

He hadn’t thought of that. He’d been so focused on healing the land, so in awe of Merlin’s power. He didn’t see a downside to any of it. It had given him hope that the ruins of the world could be renewed; that the trees would grow, the rivers would run, and the summer would shine as it had in the kingdom he remembered from so very long ago.

“I’m sorry,” he said, not knowing what else to say. “I didn’t think—.”

“No, because it was not _your_ people who needed defending,” she snipped. “If it was, maybe you would have thought twice—or at all.”

His fists clenched under the table, even if she was right. “Morgana would have found a way to get through eventually. Isolating yourself up here wouldn’t work forever. It’s time to think of joining the fight, to proactively defending your lands before she has the chance to take them for herself. You must be on the offensive.” 

“And you think you’re the man to do that?”

“I think I’m the man who can help. You said it yourself, we’re winning against the Neos.” Maybe he would regret his next words, but he bit back his hesitation and decided to say them: “It’s an unfortunate truth, but you’re losing and you could use some help.” 

She stared at him for a long time, trying to find the heart pumping blood throughout him. He thought it might have been easy for her with how fast it was beating. Still, he held her eyes until she blinked away and sat back. He knew she was listening to him, and she knew he was right.

“Do you remember anything of the day the bomb was dropped on Clyde?” she asked.

Arthur’s brows knitted together. He didn’t answer, mostly because he didn’t have one. Everyone living in Britain at the time probably had a vivid memory of that day—where they were, what they were doing when the warhead dropped. But he hadn’t returned yet, and he had no memory.

She didn’t wait for an answer before continuing; “I was nearby the base on that day, staying in the mountains with my husband. He’d been stationed at the base at the time. I had just gotten back from my tour in Belgium, and we rented a house for a holiday with the kids.”

Arthur blinked, not sure why she was telling him this. He stayed silent and listened, sure it must have been important. She didn’t seem like a woman to share her tender memories with a stranger.

“I heard the blast, saw the flash of light in the distance—and then the mushroom cloud. It swept downwind in a matter of hours. I’d been in such denial as it happened. Of course, the War was going on, but it was supposed to be fought in the far, godforsaken corners of the world. Not here at home. People always think, ‘That will never happen to me, here,’ even as it’s happening. I was the same, even after all I’d seen in Europe. It wasn’t until we fled, did I know life as we knew it in Britain was over. And I knew many people I’d cared for had died in the blast, and that my husband could have gone with them had we picked some other weekend to visit him. But, at the time, as I stood watching that cloud of ash, a ring of sunlight around it like the end of a rainstorm . . .”

She was smiling. It was a small, bittersweet smile. Arthur hadn’t expected to see that. It had no place in the horrors of what she was saying. 

“All I could think was how _pretty_ it was,” she continued. “Often, the most terrible things are the most beautiful to look at.”

At first, Arthur hadn’t understood her meaning—or maybe he didn’t want to. But he thought of the harsh beauty of the moors and the fells they’d walked through on their way to the Silver City. He thought of Merlin commanding dragons and wiping out whole armies from a vantage point high above the battle. He thought of Morgana.

“It’s even said the devil himself will come to you with a handsome face and pretty words.” Her fierce gaze fixed on him again. “Which is why you’ll understand if I don’t take your promises at face value, just in case they turn out to be empty. I won’t put the fate of my people in the hands of someone I’ve never seen fight with my own eyes.” 

He fixed his posture, and had a sneaking suspicion he knew what she was about to suggest.

“Whatever will ease your mind, name it,” he offered. “Test me in whatever way you wish.”

She nodded, and considered, “Maybe we will be able to come to an agreement.”

“What do you have in mind?”

 

///

 

“A _what_?”

Lancelot shared a few looks between his fellow knights. After his dinner with Rosewood, Arthur had summoned them all to his accommodations to tell them about the duel. He’d done it to keep them privy on the proceedings, not to ask one of them to volunteer to fight. Not that Lancelot wouldn’t be happy to fight against Rosewood’s champion. 

But Arthur would never allow it. He’d fight. It didn’t matter that Percival was stronger than him, that Gwaine was craftier, that Leon was more poised, that Elyan was more strategic, or that Lancelot was faster. Arthur would fight. He saw it as his duty, and Lancelot understood that.

Merlin, however, never did.

Arthur sighed. “A duel,” he repeated. 

“A duel.” 

“To the death.”

“To the—And you agreed to it?”

Lancelot stepped forward, hoping to calm Merlin. “Merlin, perhaps—.”

“Not now.” He didn’t even turn when he’d said it. His eyes continued to bore into Arthur. “Tell me you didn’t agree to it.”

“Of course, I agreed to it, _Mer_ lin.”

In the past, Merlin had worried whenever Arthur entered such a duel, but his protests had never been so outright. Lancelot didn’t understand it, and neither did the others. He assumed it was a quirk of this strange new time that was making Merlin behave in such a way, and Lancelot didn’t think they should have been present for such a private conversation. 

“It’s just single combat, for god’s sake,” Arthur argued.

“To the death!”

“Which I’ve done before—many times, might I add—and yet, here I am. Alive to tell the tale.”

Merlin blanched and stuttered a few times before exclaiming, “Where would you like me to begin with that?”

Gwaine snorted a laugh that he tried to abort. Arthur shot him a warning glare. Merlin didn’t even notice.

“No one fights to the death to prove their mettle or honour anymore! It’s barbaric.”

Arthur folded his arms tightly across his chest a raised a brow in offence. Lancelot tried not to take it as a blow. After all, he’d never understood the tradition, either. Sometimes, the situation called for it, when it could prevent the deaths of thousands of soldiers and civilians due to war, it was necessary; and sometimes he could see the justification in it to settle personal conflicts.

However, for things like these, to form alliances, he didn’t understand it. 

No matter his disagreement, it still stung a little to hear it called barbaric. It was a tradition of the world in which he’d lived. It was what he was raised into, what he’d learned was right in his travels and as a knight. It was all he knew. And Merlin was saying it was no longer the way. Perhaps that was for the best, but Lancelot suddenly felt like a caveman bashing in the skulls of his fellow tribesman for the last scraps of meat. He didn’t like that feeling, especially when made to feel it by a friend; and by someone who had also been born into a world of that tradition, no matter how long he’d lived past it. 

Apparently, Lancelot wasn’t the only one hurt. Gwaine said, “Looks like people up here still do it.” 

Realisation flashed on Merlin’s face. He understood what he’d done, but he didn’t apologize. Instead, he turned back to Arthur. “You have to show them a better way. Is this really how you want to start an alliance? With a killing?”

Lancelot agreed. Even if Merlin wasn’t sorry for what he’d said, Lancelot forgave him. He wasn’t petty enough to allow Arthur to build an alliance formed in blood. 

“It is possible Rosewood was testing you,” he considered. “She may want you to find another way.” 

Arthur appeared to consider it, but he hung his head and shook it. “She’s certainly testing me, but not about the duel. She wants to see me fight. I’ve met her like before. She has the same mindset of many of the sovereigns I’ve known. I don’t believe she’s playing a game this time. She wants what she wants.”

“But—,” Merlin began. 

Arthur shut him up. “This isn’t how I want to start the alliance, Merlin, but we’re in Rosewood’s land. We must follow her rules.” 

Finally, Merlin fell silent. He looked away, eyes blank as he tried to think of a way out of this.

“Her champion is Nathara,” he said, his voice low. “She’s a magician. Did Rosewood tell you that?”

Everyone stood to attention. At once, Lancelot understood why Merlin was so worried this time.

Arthur knitted his brows. “How do you know that?”

“I spoke to her,” said Merlin, “while you were with Rosewood. She told me.”

Arthur tightened his jaw, but if Nathara’s magic concerned him in the least, he didn’t let it show. “Then, I’ll have to be on my guard,” he decided, accepting the fact.

Merlin closed his eyes slowly and did not open them for a long time. Lancelot wondered what pictures his imagination was conjuring. He could not let his friend think such things, to wordlessly suffer.

“Arthur, let me take your place,” Lancelot said. He was determined not to take no for an answer. 

Arthur waved his hand dismissively. “Lancelot—.”

“You do not have to fight. Rosewood has a champion; you can have one, too. I am more than capable of it.” 

Merlin expression was a strange mix of hope, relief, and guilt. 

“I know you are,” Arthur allowed.

Lancelot jumped on the opportunity Arthur presented. He unshielded his sword and, both hands on its hilt, placed the point on the floor before Arthur. He dropped to one knee and bowed his head. “Sire, I offer my sword. Send me into the mêlée.”

He heard Arthur exhale heavily. “Get up, Lancelot.”

Lancelot remained still. 

“Lancelot,” Arthur said again, his tone sharper. “No.” 

Finally, Lancelot looked up. He couldn’t meet Merlin’s eyes. He’d failed. 

Arthur turned his attention to the rest of his men. “I will be the one fighting, not any of you. I am the one forming this alliance. I should be the one to prove our strength.”

And to risk his life. 

“The duel will be in a week’s time as we wait for Rosewood’s messenger to return from the Midlands. He’s been sent on a ship. It won’t take long to receive Darby’s reply, and for all of this confusion to subside. In the meantime, we will do what we can to help the people of the Silver City and assure our alliance with the clans.”

As Arthur spoke, Lancelot stood up and put away his sword.

“Any other questions?”

“Yes,” Merlin said with fire in his tone, and in his eyes, “what would you like your tombstone to read?”

Lancelot was certain the following conversation needed to be private. Apparently, Arthur felt the same. He looked at his men and beckoned, “Leave us.”

They all bowed their necks. As he did so, Lancelot surreptitiously looked Merlin, whose face was marble, not a crack or chip of time’s passage on the surface.

He followed the others out of the room and closed the door.

In a whispered voice, Gwaine said, “Think he’ll talk him out of it?” 

“It’s more likely Arthur will talk him into it,” Elyan answered softly.

“He should have more faith in Arthur,” Leon asserted.

Lancelot pressed his lips together and didn’t take the comment to heart. Leon always had been loyal to a fault.

“Believe me, Merlin has more faith in Arthur than even any of us,” he said, and couldn’t help but to glance at the door. “That’s why he’s so worried. If Arthur should die in this duel, Merlin will think his entire life wasted. He won’t let anything come between Arthur and the throne.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Lancelot saw Gwaine put his hand to his throat, no longer bruised but for what lingered in his imagination, and then draw it away quickly. He pretended not to see it. 

“Arthur won’t die in the fight,” Elyan said surely. 

Lancelot knew he wouldn’t. Merlin would be watching.

 

///

 

“I am _asking_ you, Arthur—don’t.”

Arthur scrubbed his face with his hands. It had been a long day. He was too tired to continue this conversation but he knew there wasn’t a chance of Merlin dropping the topic.

He tried anyway. “I’m going through with it, Merlin. Nothing you say can change my mind.”

He was determined on that point. Though, some small piece of him was pleading to listen to Merlin. Ever since Rosewood had presented him with the challenge, his gut felt heavy. It had been a long time since he’d fought in a tourney, even in Camelot. He had to give it up when he became king, and resigned to a life of watching all his knights have his fun for him. He’d always itched to do it again.

Now, he wondered if he was rushing into it.

_No_. He was still a perfect swordsman. He was confident he could win in single combat.

However, Merlin didn’t share that confidence, and it was starting to grate on Arthur. He couldn’t afford to think negatively.

“Why won’t you just listen to me?” Merlin yelled. 

“Merlin, _enough_!”

Merlin jerked his head back like he’d been struck and blinked once, his expression blanking. Arthur was just happy he wasn’t arguing.

“I’ve made up my mind.”

Merlin blinked again and looked down, but nothing about his posture was timid. He appeared to be seething, which was natural enough these days. Merlin had been quick to anger in recent years, perhaps even recent centuries.

“You asked me to be your consort,” he said flatly, “but sometimes you still treat me like I’m your servant.”

Arthur wanted to argue, but something halted him. Merlin hadn’t said it to spite him; he said it because he’d felt that way for a long time, possibly years. Arthur had no idea.

“Do you want my opinion or not?” Merlin challenged, lifting his eyes again.

Arthur felt his frustration leave him. Of course, he wanted Merlin’s opinion in all matters. He always had. But he didn’t want Merlin to talk him out of this one. For the first time since Arthur had returned, he was certain of what he was doing.

“Things are different than when I was king,” he admitted, deflating. “There are different rules, different ways to govern people. Most of the time, I don’t know why the committee picked me to lead them. I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m just—making it up as I go.” He scoffed, and rolled his eyes simply to stop them from welling. “I wasn’t a very good king the first time around, either.” 

Merlin’s brows were furrowed. He shook his head furiously. “Don’t say that.” 

“It’s true,” Arthur insisted. “But this . . . I know how to do this, Merlin. And I think I can win.” He had to win. He _had_ to. Maybe he didn’t deserve to be the head of state, but he had to prove he was still able to protect his people in battle. He had to prove to everyone that he was able to fight—and to win. How else could he be a formidable opponent to Morgana? How else could Britain rally behind him?

Maybe he wasn’t the right king for a time of peace, but he was built for war. He had to prove that to himself again.

If he didn’t win against Nathara, he had no business being king at all.

Merlin’s face had softened. He looked as though he wanted to say a hundred things, but he held them in. Arthur didn’t need his praise or his concern. He just needed Merlin to believe in him, too.

“This is something I have to do, Merlin." 

After a pause, Merlin nodded shallowly, accepting it. He’d understood Arthur’s unspoken reasons, as only Merlin ever did. Arthur was glad to have his support.

In a more lighthearted voice, he said, “Now, can we go to bed? I’m tired, and I know you are, too. A long journey always did make you cranky.”

Merlin mustered a minuscule smile. Arthur knew it was fake, and Merlin’s anxiety was hidden right beneath it, but he also knew he could never stop Merlin from worrying about him. He’d never want to stop him, either. Merlin’s vigilance was probably the reason he was still alive.

When they got into bed, Arthur slung his arm around Merlin’s stomach and rested his head on his shoulder. Merlin brushed his fingers gently through Arthur’s hair, and the tickling motion instantly made Arthur start to drift. His eyelids fell closed heavily. 

“You’d make a better consort than you did a servant,” he teased, but it came out in a mumble. 

Merlin understood it, somehow. In a tone still wide awake, he said, “You make a better husband than a boss.”

 

///

 

Six days later, Rosewood’s messenger arrived back in the Silver City with a sealed letter from Darby and one of the Midland’s top generals for added security. With Rosewood satisfied, the duel had been set for the next day.

A crowd, buzzing with excitement, was crammed into the rugby stadium, which would that day double as the duel’s sparring circle. For a moment, it reminded Merlin of a memory as old as time—of the nobles and townspeople of Camelot flocking to the jousting pitch as red and gold banners flew from the highest towers of the citadel. Only, those people were rooting for Arthur to win the tourney. The Scottish, however—well, Merlin wasn’t so certain. He doubted they wished to see their champion defeated by a southern king.

They would come around once they witnessed him fighting. They would flock to him soon enough. They had to. It was destiny.

_You ruined destiny_ , a voice in his head reminded. It was his own voice, and his father’s, and Freya’s, and Kilgharrah’s. It was no one’s and everyone’s. Merlin shook his head and ignored it. He’d find a way to make Arthur king again even if it killed him. 

But it wouldn’t kill Arthur, especially that day. It was another thing Merlin promised himself, despite the way his stomach turned as he made for the changing room in the bowels of the stadium where Arthur was preparing. A week hadn’t done much to ease his nerves; in fact, his anxiety had only mounted with each passing day. He breathed to steady himself, and pushed through the door into the row of benches and lockers.

Inside, Arthur was fiddling with the sleeves of his Kevlar. His expression, tinted red by the sun illuminating the bright colour of the lockers and coming in from the high windows, was pinched in frustration. His shoulders were a tense line, and his eyes hard—like they always were before he fought. Merlin remembered it all so well, suddenly.

He remembered every time Arthur had wielded a sword in battle. And he remembered Arthur’s final battle at Camlann. Even then, with Morgana’s Saxon army pressing in with little regard for Arthur’s noble title, with blood and grime caking Arthur’s face, with sweat matting his hair—even with Merlin standing on a cliff face, only catching glimpses of the man below—Arthur fought beautifully. Every movement was choreographed to kill, but they were executed as gracefully and precisely as a dance. Arthur made it look easy, like it was natural, unlearned. Every flick of the wrist, every spinning turn, every jump and swipe sometimes made Merlin wonder if magic flowed through Arthur’s veins, too.

There were so many legends in the minds of men. Hercules and Adonis, Jason and Ares, all the gods and goddess of war and beauty. If they saw him fight, they’d all fall from their thrones to bow to Arthur Pendragon.

The spell was broken as soon as Arthur opened his mouth to complain, “I don’t see why I have to wear _this_! Nathara is wearing armour!”

Merlin rolled his eyes and paced closer. It was a fight they had almost every time Arthur left Winchester with the army. Merlin told him the same thing he always did: “This is better. Military technology has come a long way since the days of Camelot. This is more lightweight than metal. It allows for more mobility.” 

“So you keep saying,” Arthur groaned, still fiddling with the buckle on his side. It kept slipping from his fingers. 

Without consciously deciding to do so, Merlin came forward and buckled it for him. He checked to ensure everything else was in its right place. He knew little of Kevlar, but everything seemed to be in order. He wondered if he’d be more satisfied if it were armour. Would he remember how to fasten that? Would it be a muscle memory, even after all this time? 

“It doesn’t feel right,” Arthur sighed, dropping his arms and letting Merlin check him over. “A battle is one thing, but I’ve never fought in single combat in this before.” 

“You’ll be fine.” 

“Of course, I’ll be _fine_ ,” Arthur said, rolling his eyes like it were obvious. “It doesn’t matter what I’m wearing. I can fight in anything. But I feel naked.” 

Merlin glanced up, and realised the strain in Arthur’s jaw was more than just Arthur steeling himself for battle. He was nervous. He hadn’t fought, especially in one-on-one combat, in years. Merlin wouldn’t dare say he was out of practice aloud, but the fact remained. 

He hoped to god fighting would be muscle memory to Arthur. It was just one more reason his bundle of nerves tightened its grip on him.

He couldn’t allow Arthur to doubt his skills any more than he already had. Merlin was sorry for that. He had to boost Arthur’s moral somehow to make up for the damage he’d caused.

He went to the bag that Arthur’s Kevlar had been packed in and pulled a thick, scarlet cloth from one of the side compartments. As he paced back to Arthur, he unfolded it.

“Take this,” he said, “if you want your old armour back so badly.” When Arthur had risen from Avalon, the cloth had been wrapped around his palm beneath his leather glove. He’d always worn it when he was fighting or wielding a sword. The Battle of Camlann hadn’t been an exception.

Sometimes he even wore off the sparring field. Neither of them ever mentioned it.

“It’ll be for good luck,” Merlin said, taking Arthur by the wrist and levelling it so he could wrap the cloth around his hand.

“Good luck?” Arthur said, trying to sound light. He failed completely. The low husk in his voice somehow made Merlin feel like they were standing closer than they really were. “I thought you gave it to me so you wouldn’t have to hear me complain about my sword causing anymore blisters.” 

It was true. The metal of Arthur’s hilt had often made his hand tough and cracked, and sometimes caused him to bleed on very cold days. No matter how tender the skin got, he refused to lather on the ointment Gaius had concocted, claiming it made his hands too slippery to hold the sword. However, the choice to abstain from the treatment didn’t stop Arthur from whining about the blisters on his palm. 

One night, Merlin became so tired of hearing the complaints that he tore his scarf from his neck, ripped it into two long pieces, and wrapped one of them around Arthur’s palm. “Use that!” Merlin had shouted in frustration. Arthur had said nothing. All he did was blanch like he’d just been accosted—but he didn’t take it off, and used it the next day during training. Apparently, the trick worked, because he relied on it whenever he wielded his sword from that day on.

“And did you ever get blisters again?” Merlin retorted. 

Arthur didn’t answer, which meant _no_.

Merlin grinned. “See, then? Good luck.”

He dropped Arthur’s hand, and ignored the bashful smile Arthur gave to the floor. Instead, he went to the bench where Arthur’s sword rested and picked it up gently, cradling the blade in one palm. He turned and offered it to Arthur, who held it up to the light to inspect it as though every feature wasn’t already committed to memory. He put it into its scabbard.

After a beat, Arthur said, “You’ll be watching, won’t you, Merlin?”

It was the closest Arthur would ever come to admitting he was nervous.

Merlin nodded, trying not to give away that he knew exactly how Arthur was feeling. “Always,” he promised, and forced mirth by adding, “Don’t go showing off for me.” 

It seemed to ease Arthur. He pulled his face into mock-consideration and hummed, “Deal, so long as you admit right here and now that I’m impressive.”

“Impressive? You? Never.” 

Arthur looked off and gave a silent chuckle of amusement. When their gazes locked again, both their expressions fell. 

Quietly, Merlin swore he wouldn’t let anything bad happen. 

Without a word, Arthur promised he wouldn’t leave Merlin alone. 

As Arthur finished preparing, Merlin walked through the musty maze of concrete corridors until he reached the stadium’s stands. The stands surrounded the pitch on all four sides, three of which were jam packed with spectators already rowdy and exhilarated. Merlin was able to hear their clatter from the corridors, and it burst around him when he’d first stepped outside. Many people in the crowd were holding up signs depicting crude drawings of the Silver City’s flag, or words of encouragement to Nathara. Others had painted their chests and faces in blue like their ancestral warriors.

The fourth wall of bleachers was mostly empty in comparison to the rest of the stadium. The only people who sat on that side were Rosewood, Ferguson, the Silver City’s chiefs and advisors, and the visiting commanders from neighbouring clans. Merlin wondered if anyone had come into the city once they got news of the duel. 

He made his way to the benches where he’d left the knights earlier, and squeezed himself between Elyan and Gwaine.

“Nothin’ like single combat to raise morale,” Gwaine leaned in to say, a smile plastered on his face as his eyes flitted about the crowd.

“I think they’re hoping for blood,” Elyan answered jovially, but there was concern concealed behind his eyes.

As long as it wasn’t Arthur’s blood, Merlin was fine with it.

“How is he?” Elyan then asked in a more sombre tone. Gwaine’s smile fell slightly, too, as he leaned in and listened.

Merlin forced himself to roll his eyes, trying to keep the moment light. “Arrogant. Big-headed. Supercilious. In a word: Arthur.”

It seemed to settle Elyan’s nerves, and then a blow horn sounded and the crowd’s shouts blended into a single eruption: a whoop of excitement. 

Merlin’s stomach dropped as everyone around him got to their feet. He did the same. From different corners of the stadium, two figures walked onto the pitch.

“Dumfries, Dumfries, Dumfries!” half of the crowd chanted, while the other half sang, “Na-thar-a, Na-thar-a!” 

Nathara walked tall and proud, the silver the armour on her shoulder glinting in the sun. She carried two swords in her hands, their steel flat and polished. Her face was painted with streaks of woad. 

The situation as a whole must have set Arthur’s nerves on fire. Merlin saw it in the way he carried himself, and felt it crackling in the air. He tried to push his magic forward, to wrap warmth and comfort around Arthur, to ensure him Merlin was watching. 

_I’m here_. 

The moment was broken when Gwaine unexpectedly put two fingers in his mouth and whistled so loudly it clogged Merlin’s right ear for a few long seconds. 

Arthur and Nathara met in the middle of the pitch and exchanged some words that Merlin wished he could hear. Was she goading him or wishing him luck? He knew Arthur was doing the latter, though Merlin wished he wouldn’t. Something in his gut squirmed uneasily whenever he thought of Nathara. It felt like a dragon waking from slumber.

They took a step back from each other and Arthur drew his sword. He spun it expertly in his wrist as a warm up. Gwaine whistled again, and it elicited a few more cheers and _oooohs_ from the crowd. Merlin found his gaze darting to Rosewood to see if she was impressed, but he couldn’t see her face at the distance. 

Nathara got into a battle stance, crouching low and holding both swords out at arms length like wings. A second horn blasted. Immediately, Nathara let out a shout and lunged forward. 

Arthur’s sword clanged against the metal in Nathara’s right hand, causing sparks to fly. He jumped as though anticipating a low swipe from her left blade, but it never came. The second sword was held at the ready, but remained unused.

Nathara’s style was much fiercer than Arthur’s. It reminded Merlin of the Saxon raiders at the fall of the five kingdoms. She charged forward like a wild animal and slashed through the air with loud exclamations. It was quite a show for the crowd, who reacted to every move with growing anticipation.

Arthur gave them a performance, too, one they weren’t accustomed to. He fought as he always had, with the grace of the south in his every movement. With kicks and jumps and turns when his sword was too slow. Once, when Nathara charge him, he ducked low and let her roll over his back, much to the crowd’s surprise. She landed spryly on her feet as though she’d anticipated it, and it was a part of some choreographed dance. 

Merlin followed every movement, never daring to blink, just in case his magic needed to react quickly. It was how he noticed the sigil on Nathara’s sword. He’d seen it in a quick moment when their swords clashed, and they held them against one another for a brief pause, struggling for dominance. Close to the hilt of the sword, carved into the blade, was the Helm of Awe, the same Nordic rune as the one on Nathara’s necklace.

At first, Merlin thought nothing of it. It was merely a hoodoo charm. And then he saw the sigil on the sword in her left hand, the blade she still hadn’t used in her attack but left to hang loosely from her arm like a prop. The sigil looked like a Seal of Solomon to Merlin, but something was wrong about it. He tried to remember what each of the seals looked like, especially the one in question. It may have been the Sixth Pentacle of Mars, which protected the owner from harm in battle, and caused their opponent’s weapon to turn on themselves. But the symbols were off, Merlin thought. He couldn’t recall it for sure.

He stowed away his learning and rational thought and focused on the magic coming off the sword. There was something sinister about it, something black. The Seal had been bastardized into a curse. It countered the other sword’s rune in a spell for misfortune in battle. It was meant to keep the wielder from victory. 

Why, Merlin wondered, would she carry that sword?

The creature in his gut unfurled again, warning him against peril.

The horn sounded, and the fight ceased for a quick pause. Nathara turned away and held up her dominant sword to one wall of stands, and then the other, and then the third. Each of them cheered wildly in turn. Finally, Nathara held up the sword to where Rosewood sat, and those amongst her applauded their champion. 

Arthur shook out, getting the tension out of his limbs and neck. Merlin tried to catch his eyes to will him to be careful. It was always in the second round that Arthur became overconfident, and they couldn’t afford that. Nathara was up to something bad, and Arthur needed to be wary of her. 

However, Arthur never spotted Merlin amongst the sea of faces.

When the fight began again, Nathara came forward with more viciousness than before, much to the crowd’s delight. Arthur matched her in dexterity and strength. However, while she seemed unconcerned with pleasing the crowd, Arthur began to thrive on it. Slowly, their cheers turned to his favour as he proved himself to them, and he started becoming reckless just to hear them gasp. Whenever there was a moment the two fighters parted to catch their breath, he would wave to someone in the crowd.

Merlin didn’t realise how much he was shaking his head in annoyance, or how much he was chewing on his lip in worry until he tasted iron.

Arthur had his attention on some of the girls in the first row of benches, giving them a flourished bow as they giggled. Merlin would have rolled his eyes, except for the fact that Nathara was rushing towards Arthur’s back, her sword pointed like a spear.

Merlin’s eyes flashed, and the soil and grass in Nathara’s path became uneven. She stumbled forward, and the crowd gasped. Arthur spun around to block her haphazard blow, but she swung with the sword in her left hand. Arthur faltered, and tried to correct his defence. She used the moment of confusion to her advantage. She dropped the cursed sword and punched him hard in the face.

The spectators groaned. The iron in Merlin’s mouth no longer tasted like his own. 

Arthur backpedalled. With two hands gripping a single sword, Nathara swung. Arthur blocked it, but there were still stars in his eyes. His sword dropped from his hand. Nathara swept down and picked it up. She threw her other sword to the side, out of arm’s reach.

The air was suddenly claustrophobic and too thick to breathe in. 

“Not good,” Merlin heard Gwaine say from very far away. Gwaine didn’t even understand the half of it.

“I have to get down there,” Merlin worried. He turned towards the aisle, but he was boxed in on all sides. He shoved, only half paying attention to where he was going. His eyes were on Arthur. He’d taken up Nathara’s cursed sword.

Leon hissed when Merlin stepped on his toes, but Merlin didn’t bother with an apology. He had to get to Arthur. It was bad enough that he’d played into Nathara’s trickery. (She’d planned for him to take the cursed sword, Merlin was certain.) But she was wielding Excalibur. Merlin didn’t know what would become of that.

The sword had been forged for Arthur. Its magic was for Arthur. No one else. Only he was meant to wield it.

Merlin emerged into the aisle. He sprinted down the stairs, and all but stumbled against the barrier on the bottom landing that separated the pitch from the stands. He gripped the top of the barrier until the blood drained from his knuckles. He willed all the magic he could muster, feeling it well up inside of him and dance right beneath his paper-thin skin. 

And then, before he released his magic, Nathara attempted to bring the sword down on Arthur, but he blocked the blow. She blanched, hesitating in her shock. In that moment, Arthur managed to knock the sword out of Nathara’s hands. It landed on the grass just out of reach. 

Arthur jumped up and kicked her square in the gut. Winded, she fell backwards and landed hard on her spine. With blood trickling from his nose and a bruise blooming on his split lip, Arthur pressed his boot onto Nathara’s hip and hovered the tip of the cursed sword inches from her throat. If she swallowed too hard, her skin would meet the steel. 

Suddenly, it was as though the stadium was empty. The spectators went as silent as death.

Neither Arthur nor Nathara moved. Their gazes were locked. Across the pitch, Rosewood had gotten to her feet, enraptured by the scene before her.

_Bring the blade down_ , Merlin prayed as though Arthur could hear his thoughts. _Kill her_.

He knew Arthur would spare her, even before Arthur lifted his boot and tossed the cursed sword away. He held his hand down to Nathara in offering. She paused, as if wondering if he was tricking her. She must have trusted him because, knowing she was bested, she accepted his hand and he pulled her to her feet.

The horn blasted one last time, but the roaring of the spectators drowned it out.

Merlin breathed and relaxed his body, letting his armed magic ebb away. The crowd was chanting Arthur’s name. He looked towards Rosewood, who was nodding with minimal attention paid to Ferguson, who whispered urgently in her ear. She appeared to be smiling, but quickly turned to exit the stands.

Merlin turned his eyes back to Arthur, who was now ignoring his adoring fans. He was crowded into Nathara, his hand on her shoulder, speaking in a soft tone. Nathara’s opposite hand clapped his shoulder, too, as though the two were age-old companions. Then, they broke.

Arthur went to his sword and put it back in his belt. One last time, he turned to the stands and lifted his hand towards them. The audience’s praise grew louder.

Merlin closed his eyes and listened. However, the image of Arthur remained as if his eyes were still open. Something in his chest felt light as he looked upon his champion, his king, his husband.

A thought crept into his mind before he could stop it.

_I’m proud to be his consort_. 

He had to banish that thought before it intruded upon him again. He could not think of himself in such a way. And yet, his pride for Arthur outweighed his concern for destiny in that moment. He allowed himself to pretend it could be so, just for a moment.

When he opened his eyes, Arthur was walking off the pitch towards the door he’d come out of, the calls of his people following him. He’d go to the changing room. Merlin would meet him there. 

He took off in a run. 

By the time Merlin got to there, Arthur was already inside, his head knocked back as the chugged an audibly crinkling water bottle. When he noticed Merlin standing in the entrance, he wiped the water that had dribbled down his chin away with the back of his hand. “See? I told you I’d win—.”

Merlin hardly allowed him to finish the sentence. He’d rushed towards Arthur and took him into a hard kiss. Arthur tensed, not having expected it. Merlin hadn’t expected it, either; in fact, he hadn’t planned on kissing Arthur until he’d burst into the changing room and set eyes on him. Soon, Arthur melted into the kiss, and wrapped his arms around Merlin to hold him closer. Merlin folded his palm across the back of Arthur’s neck, sticky from Arthur’s drenched hair. Up close, Arthur smelt sweet with sweat. His mouth tasted like heat and metal, and it took Merlin a long time to remember Arthur’s busted lip.

Breathing, Merlin drew away. Arthur hissed slightly in pain, but didn’t protest. He looked a little dazed from the kiss.

“You almost didn’t win,” Merlin told him. He looked over his shoulder to make sure no one was standing in the doorway before releasing Arthur from his arms.

Arthur threw the mangled water bottle onto the bench and began taking off his Kevlar. “What are you talking about?” 

“Nathara’s sword, the one you used—it was cursed.”

Arthur stopped what he was doing and furrowed his brows at Merlin.

“She put a rune on it. She _planned_ for you to wield it, Arthur.”

Arthur seemed to ponder it for a moment, and then shrugged. “She’s a skilled warrior,” he said simply, and again started to undress. 

Merlin blanched. “She would have killed you!”

“I don’t know what to tell you, Merlin,” Arthur chuckled shallowly. “It was a fight to the death! I can’t blame her for using all of her advantages against me." 

Merlin hadn’t thought of it like that. He was so used to seeing magic used in combat for evil. That’s how it had always been in Camelot, anyway. He couldn’t count how many tourneys he’d had to intervene in because Arthur’s life was in danger from a secretly magic opponent. Perhaps Nathara hadn’t been a part of some scheme. She was merely using magic as she had always done—to fight, to survive, to win. 

Still, the notion didn’t sit right with Merlin. 

“Besides, it’s not like I didn’t cheat,” Arthur said. He propped his foot up on the bench and leaned his crossed arms onto his knee, staring at Merlin. “When she tripped? I knew it was you.”

Merlin tried to act innocent, but failed.

“How many times _exactly_ have you cheated for me in a fight?” As soon as Arthur asked it, he decided against it. He waved his hand and said, “Don’t answer that. I don’t want to know. Allow me to at least _pretend_ the victories were mine.”

Merlin bit at his lower lip, guilty for making Arthur feel inadequate for something he was so proud of. “They were—mostly. I only helped a little.” 

“Good to know.”

Arthur considered something with a pout, and then asked, “If the sword was cursed, why did I win?”

Merlin had been just as shocked by it. It was possible that it was Arthur’s skill, but he knew there another reason—something ancient and powerful that had come to Arthur’s aid. His gaze fell on the sheathed sword hanging from Arthur’s hip.

“She was using your sword,” he said. “Kilgarrah once told me the sword was meant to be wielded by you, and you alone.”

Arthur’s gaze scanned the floor. Unconsciously, his hand moved to rest on the hilt of his sword. It had become a part of him. Perhaps he didn’t know it, but he could control it like he could his own limbs. It would never harm him; in fact, if anything tried, it would fight the pathogen away to keep him alive. 

“And she was using it against you,” Merlin continued. “It was forged in the Old Religion, magic more powerful than any hoodoo symbol. It must have overcome the curse to protect you.” 

He wasn’t sure if Arthur believed it, because he asked incredulously, “Are you saying my _sword_ has a mind of it’s own?” 

That wasn’t what Merlin was saying. He didn’t know what exactly how to phrase it, but the closest he came to expressing his thoughts was, “I’m saying the magic inside it does.”

Behind Merlin, Leon stuck his head inside the door. It lifted some of the tension from the room, and normalcy resumed.

“Sire, General Rosewood wishes to see you.” 

Briefly, Arthur flashed a look to Merlin, and then turned his attention to Leon. “We’re coming,” he said, and they both followed Leon from the room.

 

///

 

Arthur and Merlin met Rosewood in her tent on the side of the rugby pitch. Ferguson was with her, eyeing Arthur like he’d placed a bet on the duel’s winner and just lost a lot of money. Or maybe he just didn’t like Arthur. It didn’t matter much, because Rosewood was regarding Arthur pleasantly.

“You fight well,” she appraised almost as soon as he walked in. “I’ve never seen anyone take on Nathara in single combat and win.”

“She almost had you,” Ferguson grumbled proudly.

“Almost,” Arthur defended himself. He didn’t mean it to sound boastful, but he was glad to know he was still the best swordsman in Britain. To sound humble, he added, “Perhaps next time the challenge will be firearms. I’ve no doubt she’ll best me then.”

“There won’t be a next time. I’m satisfied with what I saw,” Rosewood assured him. 

Arthur was relieved. He didn’t know if Rosewood would think him weak for not following through on the rules of the combat. Nathara was a good fighter. They could use her in the war, and it would be a shame to waste that by killing her. Still, such a decision to forgo the rules was tricky. It could easily backfire if one didn’t fully understand the customs of the culture they were in. He knew Rosewood had been testing him, and it was good to know he’d passed with flying colours. 

“All I did was try not to die,” Arthur said modestly.

At once, Rosewood admitted, “There was never any chance of that. Should she win, I instructed Nathara not to kill you.”

Arthur blanched. She’d certainly been convincing in the arena! If that was Nathara holding back, perhaps she was a better warrior than he’d thought. Half of him wanted a re-match so they could fight on fair ground. He wondered what the outcome of that would be.

“What if Arthur had killed her?” Merlin asked to quell his own curiosity. He knew Arthur wouldn’t have actually killed the woman. The question didn’t need an answer. Merlin did. 

“A true leader shows mercy when they think it right, and knows not to waste a good warrior,” said Rosewood. “I hoped Arthur would know this. If not—,” she shrugged nonchalantly, “Nathara is merely a soldier. Arthur is soon to be the King of Britain. He went in the arena believing it was a fight to the death, and I would honour those rules. To kill the king for such an offence would only make me more enemies—which is counterproductive if we want an alliance.”

Arthur perked up. “Alliance? You—?” He let out a breath of laughter and looked at Merlin, whose expression was shifting between dismay for their so-called _barbaric_ ways and happiness that they’d achieved their goal. 

“The Scottish nations will stand with the provinces,” Rosewood confirmed, much to Ferguson’s chagrin. His expression was almost as untamed as Merlin’s at the thought of working with the English. Arthur would give him reason to come around eventually.

“Thank you,” Arthur told her sincerely. 

Then, the tent flap opened again and Nathara, still covered in streaks of grime, strode through. “Arthur,” she said, walking right past Merlin, who suddenly squared up like a lion protecting its territory. “You make a strong opponent.” 

She held out her hand to him, and Arthur took it at the wrist in the way of a fellow soldier. 

“As did you,” he told her with admiration. He wished he could stay in Scotland a little longer. There were certain moves she’d impressed him with, and he wanted to learn them. Still, he felt better knowing he’d have such a strong warrior leading troops on the Scottish front. “I’m certain you’ll make an even stronger ally.” 

“I look forward to sitting on your committee,” Nathara answered. It puzzled Arthur. He looked at Rosewood for an answer. 

“Nathara will be representing the Clans in my stead,” said Rosewood. “I must remain in Scotland where I’m needed. I have no doubt Nathara will relay my interests to the committee.” She favoured Nathara with a smile. “She is as wise as she is brave.” 

Arthur lit up at the prospect. She would be able to spend some time training with his troops, and he was certain she’d bring some of her clansmen with her. They would be able to teach each other new tactics of battle. “I’m sure she’ll make a good addition to the committee.”

“Nathara tells me she already have some strategies she believes you’ll wish to hear. We should go to my offices and discuss them,” Rosewood said. Arthur agreed, and Rosewood and Ferguson started out of the tent together to their horses.

Arthur followed with Nathara at his side.

“Tell me,” she said, “that trick you did twirling your sword . . . How did you learn that?”

“Ah, it’s all in the wrist,” Arthur chatted happily. “I’ll teach it to you.”

“What’s the purpose of it? Does it strengthen your attack?”

“No, not at all. But it looks pretty good.”

They continued on together, and Arthur didn’t notice Merlin’s eyes burning a hole into Nathara’s shoulders.

A day later, Rosewood provided Arthur with a ship back to the provinces. The ship was one in their modest fleet that Arthur decided could come in handy one day, if it grew. It was an old freighter that the Scots used to quickly get to their clans on the opposite coast and in the lowlands without crossing the Wastelands. _Quickly_ , was the word that was promised to Arthur, but the trip took two days, and Arthur realised how much time had passed since he’d been in the provinces. It was mid-June, and he’d been away from home for much too long. 

Nathara and her crew accompanied them, and dropped them off in Wales before heading back north to Dumfries. She had business there, but promised Arthur she would meet him in Winchester in a week’s time. She would be the first Scottish commander to travel south since the War.

Along the way to Wales, Arthur had half a mind to convince Nathara to stop in Ireland for a word with the President about joining the alliance. He felt like nothing could stand in his way. After an internal debate, he decided to stay on their course. And alliance with Ireland would come later, he was certain. For now, he had to focus on his own island.

His kingdom.

 

///

 

A visitor had passed through the main gates of the Neo Base. Morgana paced in front of her seat in the throne room, awaiting her ally’s arrival. Morgause and Mordred stood patiently on either side of the throne.

Malcolm stood guard on the inside of the door. He touched the earpiece as it crackled into life. Morgana could not hear what was said, but she felt the vibrations of the tinny voice rattle the air.

“She’s in the building,” Malcolm reported.

Morgana stopped pacing and gave him a steady nod. She looked to Morgause, whose expression was even. Then, she picked up the bottom of her dress and moved to sit on the throne. She was eager to hear news of the north. Reports from her troops in Scotland said the Wastelands were suddenly supple and vibrant with life, as though summer had passed through the land. That could only mean Emrys had been there. 

Her ally in the Scottish lowlands had intercepted a message headed to the Silver City weeks ago, saying Arthur would meet with Rosewood. Immediately, Morgana sent her ally to the city as a spy. 

And now the time had come. Arthur was in Scotland. Morgana had anticipated him trying to form an alliance with Rosewood even before she’d received the message. It would be both a blessing and a curse.

A curse, Mordred said, because their armies would be united against the Neos. A blessing, Morgause considered, because they’d know Arthur’s every move.

“Calm yourself, sister,” Morgause urged, and Morgana realised she was tapping her fingers. “We will find out what our spy has to say soon enough.”

“It doesn’t matter what’s said,” Mordred countered. “We knew Arthur was to pass through our lands. He was under our nose. We should have squashed him like a bug.”

Morgause gave him a fiery glare. “Then, perhaps your patrols should be more organized, before every soldier in the five provinces shows up on our doorstep.”

Mordred burned hotly and opened his mouth to protest.

“Enough,” Morgana snipped. She could hardly stand their constant bickering. They were meant to be a family, not enemies.

Before she could say so, the doors opened and an impressively tall woman in leather and metal armour strode into the room, her mess of braids bouncing as she moved. “My queen,” the woman said, sounding out of breath. She drew her sword and placed the tip on the ground in offering and hastily genuflected in front of the throne. 

Morgana surveyed her up and down. The Commander appeared ragged and harried. “Arise, Nathara,” she said after a pause. “You have come a long way to give me your message.”

“Yes, my queen,” Nathara said, getting to her feet. She sheathed her sword and continued, “I felt this message was better given in person. Rosewood has aligned herself with King Arthur. I returned from the Silver City with him on Rosewood’s ships. As we speak, he rides for Winchester.”

Morgana eyed her sister, and then Mordred. She regarded Nathara again. “We assumed as much. Tell me, have they made any strategies against us?” 

“None official,” Nathara answered promptly. “But, when they do, I’ll know. Rosewood has trusted me to be her liaison in Arthur’s committee. I will go to Winchester for the next meeting.” 

“Well, then,” Morgana said, smirking, “it appears some things are just too easy.” Perhaps Arthur’s deal with Rosewood wasn’t all she feared. 

“I’ll keep you informed of the committee’s plans,” Nathara told her. “And of Rosewood’s. Dumfried Clan is still loyal to you.” 

Morgana inclined her head in appreciation. “I know, Commander. You have been loyal since our first meeting.”

Nathara had been sent by Rosewood to meet the Neos in battle months ago. Nathara, however, had plans of her own. She practiced magic, as did many of her clansmen. She loathed answering to Rosewood, a woman with no power other than what she was given by man. She’d handed Morgana her clan’s lands, and the fake skirmishes still going on in Dumfries and Galloway were merely part of their ploy to make Rosewood believe Nathara was still hers.

Morgana stood up and stepped forward to meet Nathara. “And soon your loyalty will be rewarded. Scotland will be yours.” 

Nathara’s eyes lit up hungrily at the reminder of their pact. “We can hasten that day. Surely you’ve heard about the Wastelands coming to life? Your army can easily march to the Silver City. My clan can fight alongside you.” 

Morgana raised a hand to silence her. She chuckled, “In time. We mustn’t give your true alliance away so quickly. You must win the trust of Arthur and his committee.”

She scoffed. “That will be easy, I assure you. It is his consort that worries me. I don’t know if I can hide from such powerful magic.”

For a moment, Morgana didn’t understand. She rattled her head. “Guinevere has always been smart, but there’s no need to worry. She hasn’t any magic,” she assured. Morgana wasn’t sure why Nathara would think such a silly thing. It must have come from those ludicrous legends she kept hearing about.

Nathara needn’t worry about Gwen. It was Emrys’ that would be her true advisory. He was suspicious of everyone who came within arm’s length of Arthur.

Morgana was just about to say so when she saw Nathara’s brows pinched in confusion. “Guinevere?” she parroted. “I’m talking about Arthur’s consort. Merlin.” 

Morgana felt her heart skip in premature fear. Nathara must have gotten the wrong information. Merlin and Arthur had always been close, but they weren’t married. It was ridiculous enough that Gwen sat on Morgana’s throne. Emrys in that place would be unthinkable. 

“Merlin?” Mordred echoed, equally as dumbfounded. His face was suddenly stricken and pale. Morgause, too, looked thrown.

“Yes,” Nathara answered haltingly, not believing that they did not know. “The one they call Emrys.”

Morgana tried to wave the idea away. “You’re mistaken. Emrys is not Arthur’s consort.”

“Forgive me, my queen,” Nathara said, still perplexed, “but I was there when Arthur introduced him to the General.”

Morgana looked wildly at her sister. How could they not know such a thing? Swaying Emrys to their side was difficult enough as it was. If he were truly married to Arthur, it would prove impossible.

Arthur could not claim Emrys in such a way! He was Morgana’s to conquer.

She felt hollow, and her dreams of success suddenly felt unachievable. 

However, a smile erupted on Morgause’s face. Her eyes were gleeful. “I believe this fact helps us,” she laughed.

Morgana did not understand, but hope sprang in her heart. Mordred, however, regarded Morgause like she’d lost her mind. “Are you mad? We need to kill him!” 

“Whatever for, when we now have such a easy route to his heart? I am not mad, Mordred, but Emrys will be. We shall drive him towards it. Duty and destiny are difficult things to break,” Morgause said, “but love is weakness.” 

And now, Morgana understood. She felt the pounding in her breast change from terror to excitement. She knew now exactly where to pierce Emrys: in his heart.


	8. Chapter 8

At first, Merlin saw nothing but flashes—white and blinding. They soon gave way to colour and shape, bringing with it clashes of sound that should not have blended together. There was the clanking of metal, shouts of agony, gasps of delight. Someone shouted Merlin’s name. It sounded like Arthur—panicking.

The images that came next went by too quickly to latch onto. Fire, hot against Merlin’s skin. Silver, cold and reflecting the night. A tomb, dark and daunting as it snaked beneath the ground. A stars-speckled sky, vast and endless.

Arthur and Gwen.

The images slowed to a grinding halt. Arthur and Gwen stood in his study in the manor. They were too close, comfortable. Arthur brought something up to show her. It was a small, velvet ring box. When he opened it, Merlin could not see what was inside.

Gwen’s mouth fell open in a stunned gasp. “Oh, Arthur!” she breathed, spellbound by whatever lay inside the box. Her eyes flashed from it to him. His nervous gaze was fixed only on her.

“Yes!” she proclaimed. “Yes, I do!”

All of Arthur’s nerves fell away to relief and happiness. 

There were flashes again, the same as before. All that was left were distorted pictures and static, all passing too quickly to form meaning. 

Merlin bolted awake. He felt as though he’d just run a marathon. He tried to catch his breath as his eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness around him. It was no use. All he saw were the images from his dream—his vision. 

He gulped down the rest of the air in the room and looked down at the man snoring next to him. His throat constricted like he might be sick. Arthur remained sleeping contently, so unaware of the hurricane brewing next to him. 

Merlin didn’t know what to believe. His head was too crowded with thoughts. They fell through the cracks in he fingers like water whenever he tried to hold on to one.

 

///

 

Arthur woke up cold. Before he even opened his eyes, he’d turned over to wrap an arm around Merlin for warmth. However, Merlin wasn’t there, which was probably why he was cold. Judging from the temperature of the sheets on his side of the bed, Merlin hadn’t been there for quite a while. 

He blinked his eyes open to the pewter light coming through the windows, whose sills where covered by a large pile of December’s latest snowfall. It continued to accumulate as Arthur pushed himself up onto his elbows and looked around the room for Merlin. He was nowhere in sight. 

It couldn’t have been late morning. Usually, Merlin or Ainsworth woke Arthur up if it got too late.

Arthur got out of bed and threw on a t-shirt and dressing gown. He stuck his head into the bathroom, but Merlin wasn’t there, either. He padded into the hallway and made for the stairs. The manor was still quiet save for muffled sounds of the heat clanging through the metal vents in the walls. It couldn’t have been late at all, if the staff wasn’t even milling about yet. 

He walked down the stairs, careful not to touch the evergreen garland, adorned with red and gold ornaments and bows, wrapped around the banisters on either side. Christmas was in a few days, and the manor had been decorated accordingly. The city, too, had been strung with lights and wreathes in preparation for the holiday. More vendors had come into town pedalling their livelihoods. The committee agreed to allow as many merchants as possible, so long as the vendors had a license, to stimulate the economy. The season brought good money into Winchester. 

For Arthur, the perks of the season were these: feasts with lots of dancing and good wine instead of discussions of State, early endings to committee meetings as the sun sank low earlier and yawns were stifled beneath hands, warm fires that made his bedroom smell like the outdoors, and greenery that spiced the air with the scent of the forest. He’d always loved Yuletide in Camelot. The spirit of it carried over, even into this new world.

Morgana had even gone quiet for some time, which both worried and calmed him. The summer and autumn had been filled with battles as the Neos tried to reclaim lands in the Midlands and Anglia. Many times, they had succeeded; and, many times, they had been lying in wait like shadows on the secret routes Britain’s army took. The British would be ambushed, and Morgana’s weapon would be unleashed on the towns. However, many times, they lost, too. Arthur knew that was the way of war: battles were like pieces of crimson thread that knitted together into a full tapestry. What mattered was the image it depicted once it was complete.

However, as the weather turned colder and the iron scent of snow hung on the air, the battles became more infrequent. He wondered if this is what life would be like all the time once Morgana was gone. Something guilty crept into his heart whenever he thought it. He’d much prefer it if Morgana stayed, but as the Morgana he remembered from his youth. His sister had always loved Yuletide, too. He wondered if she still did, or if that, too, had changed in her. He hoped not; and, selfishly, he hoped a small piece of her missed sharing the season with him.

When he got to the ground level, Arthur heard the crackling sound of a fire. He followed it into the parlour, where he found Merlin sitting cross-legged on the carpet in front of the hearth. Everything in the room, the furniture included, was floating soundlessly a few inches from the floor. The objects bobbed in the air as though on the waves of an ocean. The lights on the tree in the corner flickered in a pattern, playing a silent song.

For the blink of an eye, Arthur thought he saw Merlin’s skin illuminate in amber light, but it must have just been the fire’s reflection, so he thought nothing of it.

Arthur stood in the threshold, leaning against the frame, and watched him for as long as Merlin would allow. He knew Arthur was there. He’d probably known the moment Arthur woke up. Arthur knew he did. It was obvious in the way Merlin’s magic wrapped around him, pulsing through him like a second heartbeat.

Usually, Merlin didn’t allow himself to be observed for so long when he honed his power or did his work in healing the earth. Arthur wondered why he was doing so now, but it might have had something to do with the underlying ache Arthur felt beneath Merlin’s magic. It reminded him of a year ago, which felt more like a lifetime, when he and Merlin went on their vision quest together. He still remembered Merlin’s sorrow.

It had spiked up again recently, especially in the days after their second anniversary—which, thankfully, had been a happier occasion than their first. But he knew Merlin still fretted. He just hoped that god-awful dragon hadn’t come around to further convince him that the world rested on his shoulders alone. 

Arthur tried to put it from his mind. Relatively, Merlin had been doing so well since they arrived in Winchester. He’d been happy. Arthur had hoped they’d banished Merlin’s sadness, never to return, even in winter’s frost. They had fires to keep them warm.

After a few moments, the lights on the tree stopped blinking and instead glowed steadily. The objects that had been floating settled gently back into place. The roaring fire dwindled some, but still crackled and popped with the fresh sap on the kindling.

Arthur took it as his cue to enter the room and seat himself on the floor beside Merlin.

“How long have you been down here?”

Merlin kept his eyes on his lap. The honey-gold light of the fire tinted his skin. “I woke up. Couldn’t fall back to sleep,” he said in a non-answer.

Arthur regarded him out of the corner of his eyes, but Merlin didn’t look back. He pushed a cheerful grin and knocked Merlin’s shoulder with his own. “Why so glum?”

“I’m just tired,” Merlin excused. “Your snoring kept me up.”

Arthur’s mouth fell open. “I don’t snore _that_ loudly,” he protested.

Merlin snorted. “You sound like a wounded hog.” 

“I do _not_ —!” Arthur began, his eyes wide, until he realised that he’d fallen for Merlin’s old trick of changing the subject to avoid the truth. 

“Merlin,” he said sternly.

“Hmm?”

Ainsworth’s voice, coming from the threshold, interrupted them. “Sir, a message for you from the Great Hall.” Arthur looked over his shoulder at him.

“What message?” he asked, slightly perturbed at the intrusion. It didn’t surprise him that Ainsworth was up so early. It seemed he never slept.

“It’s _in_ the Great Hall, sir. You’ve received a gift from your fellow committee members.”

Arthur blanched. “A gift?”

“A Christmas gift, I believe,” Ainsworth clarified.

Arthur looked at Merlin, wondering if he knew anything about it. Apparently, Merlin was just as surprised. Deciding to finish their conversation later, Arthur got up from the floor. They dressed quickly and took the Golf to the Great Hall.

Inside the hall, where the long committee table once stood, a polished circular table had been installed. The pristine, glossed wood was of a deep mahogany colour and was at least half a foot thick. The edges were carved with symbols of the nation—lions, hares, and corbins, thistles and roses. In front of the king’s chair, a crown was carved into the edge. The back of the chair stood higher than the rest around the table, though all were made of the same rich wood with red and gold cushions lining them. Plated in gold on the back of Arthur’s seat was the Pendragon emblem. The same dragon was carved into the centre of the table. 

Arthur’s breath caught when he saw it. It was more magnificent than the one in Camelot’s court.

“This must be our colleague’s idea of a joke,” he droned, trying to play off his joy. He was doing a poor job at it. He was beaming. He paced towards the table and ran his palm over the smooth surface. He drew back when he realised his fingers smudged the sheen.

“Or maybe they believe in you,” Merlin suggested.

Arthur pulled out his chair and sat, his posture perfect despite the comfort the seat afforded. He spread out his fingers and set them down on the table as he got accustomed to the view. The diameter of it seemed even greater from this vantage point.

Then, he looked at Merlin. “I have you to thank for that.” 

Merlin looked away, but he was clearly pleased. Arthur was happy to see at least a ghost of smile.

Arthur nodded at the seat to his right. “Come on. That one’s yours.”

Merlin hesitated for a moment, appearing thoughtful. “You’re sure?”

Arthur barked with jovial laughter. “Of course, you idiot! Who else’s would it be?”

At first, Merlin remained still; but, eventually, he walked over and sat down. Arthur nodded at him, enjoying this view, too. “Suits you, Merlin,” he complimented.

“It’s more comfortable than standing behind your chair, at least.”

Arthur snorted, but remorse crept up on him. Merlin should have been seated at his right hand long ago.

He turned his gaze back to the table, and suddenly felt more at home than he ever had. He knew at once, like a premonition, that all would be well. They would win their war, they would unite the land in peace, and they would rebuild the country. There, in his seat at the Round Table, was where he’d begin.

 

///

 

Christmas came and went. Merlin and Arthur, along with the knights, spent the majority of Christmas day passing out food and gifts to the citizens of Winchester who could not afford such luxuries. For weeks, Gwen had collected and organized the donations in order to give every family in the city the holiday they deserved. Bulletin and newspaper reporters came in from London for the story. Like hounds, they sought a sound byte from the king; but Arthur ducked his head and gave Gwen the glory. He groaned when the news stories focused on him, anyway, but Gwen did mind. She said it was important for the people to see him doing good deeds.

As the days tripped on towards the New Year, reports came in from the north about Neo troops moving in on the borderlands of Anglia. It was the first time in weeks that they heard of any Neo activity outside of Scotland and Morgana’s territory.

It seemed the brief solace they had from her was now over. That much became abundantly clear just two days before New Year’s, when a messenger came to the manor and told Arthur of a new group of refugees that had just entered the city.

When Merlin rushed after Arthur’s heels into Guildhall, a crowd of nearly three dozen was already nestled inside. They were mostly women—girls, really, and the majority of them appeared to be teenagers or younger. However, Merlin did spot two boys in the mix, as well. The eldest of the group couldn’t have been older than twenty, and the three smallest of them stuck close to her, wrapping their arms around her legs to shield themselves from the unknown surroundings. 

They had been escorted by the patrol that been sent to Crawley a few days previous. Percival, who was currently rocking a five-year-old girl who clung to his neck, and Gwaine, who was smiling gently as he wrapped his jacket around the bare shoulders of a heavily pregnant refugee, had led the company.

“Gwaine, what is this?” Arthur asked. His brow was scrunched in concern as he scanned the sorry crowd. Every person among them was in a varying state of bruised and battered. Some even looked badly injured, with bloody wounds or broken bones. The worst of them were being shepherded to sit down, and Gaius immediately scurried towards them. 

Merlin wanted to do the same, but no one appeared to be in a critical state. There would be plenty of time to help them later. First, Merlin thought it best to get information about them. 

When Gwaine was done tending to the girl, he made for Merlin and Arthur. After blowing out his cheeks in an overwhelmed way, he explained, “Our patrol intercepted a lorry carrying them. Figured it was best to bring them here straight away.”

“They were being trafficked,” Merlin realised. To this, Arthur’s eyes went wide with horror, and then quickly changed to heartfelt sympathy.

Gwaine remained sombre as he nodded. “Probably on their way to the highest bidders.”

“Was this all of them?” Arthur asked, his eyes flittering across the crowd.

“Most of them,” Gwaine answered, sounding rueful. 

Arthur’s attention snapped to him. For a moment, it looked like he might yell, demanding to know why all the prisoners hadn’t been saved. But then his face softened again, and he nodded curtly. Arthur knew that his soldiers would have done all they could to rescue everyone. Now, they had to help those they could. 

“Where did they come from?”

“Brighton.” Gwaine hadn’t answered. The eldest of the refugees stood a few feet from them. When she answered, all three of their heads swivelled towards her. She was a simple girl: average height and curvy with freckled skin and waves of tangled brown hair the same shade as her eyes. She lifted her round chin as she spoke, and it made her seem taller. 

This was not a woman new to hardships, Merlin observed.

She stepped closer and continued, “I think they were taking us to the Neo Territory for auction. I overheard two of the men speaking last night.”

Merlin knew that Arthur stowed the information, but he said nothing of it. Instead, Arthur asked in a soft tone, “What is your name?”

“Aurora.”

“Aurora, I am Arthur Pendragon.” Arthur moved closer to her and placed a comforting palm to her shoulder. At first, Merlin’s stomach dropped, as he was certain Aurora would react badly to being touched. However, she did not so much as flinch. She only blinked at him with the trust of a naïve child in her eyes. There was something like adoration in them, too. 

“I promise you’re safe now,” said Arthur. “I will ensure you get home to your family.”

She shook her head, her eyes downcast. “I don’t have one. They were all killed.”

Arthur froze, taking in a halted breath of guilt at his blunder. “I’m sorry,” he told her, recovering. “Was it your captors who killed them?”

Another shake of her head. “The bombs during the War.”

Merlin had told his fair share of lies during his life. He knew the smell of them. Aurora was lying. 

However, Arthur didn’t seem to notice. He apologized again before saying, “You’re welcome to stay in Winchester.” Stepping away from her, he turned to the crowd and extended the invitation in an echoing voice. “You’re all welcome in Winchester, if you so wish. We can provide you with food and shelter. For those of you who have families, rest assured we will return you to them safely.” 

He gave Gwaine a nod, and Gwaine returned it before hurrying off to help those in need.

Merlin’s eyes didn’t leave Aurora. She met his scrutiny, and she inhaled trippingly as she gave him the once over.

_Hello, Emrys_ , said a foreign voice intruding into his thoughts. It was Aurora’s voice. He jolted, and wondered if he had imagined it because her expression remained calm. However, the voice spoke again.

_Don’t be afraid. I’m a Druid of the Old Religion. My people seek your help, Emrys. Please, help us._

Aurora’s eyes had become desperate as Merlin continued to gape at her. 

A Druid? It wasn’t possible. Was it? He thought they’d all died, that no more tribes survived. His sight narrowed in on her like tunnel vision; his metaphorical hackles rose. But then something else washed over him: a range of thoughts and emotions, mostly fear. And longing. Longing for a home. Longing to belong. Not wanting to hide. 

He felt strangely disassociated from himself, like he was floating in the sea, the salty waves licking around him. He was skimming the surface of something, but a quick dip in the waters of Aurora’s mind was all he needed to know she was telling the truth.

However, before Merlin could answer, Arthur spoke again. 

“I’m sure you’re hungry,” he told her. 

A grateful smile spread across her cheeks, as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened. “Starving.”

“One of my men will escort you and those able to the dining hall. I will have food prepared for you.”

“Thank you,” she heaved, as though the prospect of food was enough alone to sustain her.

Vaguely, Merlin was aware of Arthur addressing him. “Merlin, see what you can do to help Gaius. Merlin, are you listening?”

Merlin realised he hadn’t blinked in what felt like minutes. He made up for it rapidly, getting rid of the stinging dryness in his eyes. “Uh, yeah. I’ll see what I can do.” 

“Good,” Arthur answered quickly, seeming satisfied. He offered Aurora another comforting smile and disappeared.

Merlin turned to follow him away. He had to clear his head, to focus on something else. However, he heard Aurora’s urging voice again.

_Meet me tonight at the Cathedral. Please._

Merlin halted. Hesitantly, he looked over his shoulders at the young woman’s pleading eyes. He hadn’t the heart to deny her, so he nodded as inconspicuously as he could. At once, he saw the tension in her body relax. 

Aurora followed the group being escorted back out of the hall.

 

///

 

It was close to midnight by the time Merlin got to the Cathedral. He’d slipped out of the manor after Arthur had gone to sleep, which Merlin had started to believe would never happen with all the patrol reports Arthur was leafing through in his study. Finally, bleary-eyed and rumpled, Arthur snuggled beneath the covers next to Merlin and was snoring in minutes.

Merlin hated sneaking out on him like that, even though the rush of familiarity it sent through him was exhilarating. He promised himself not to make a habit of it. But he needed to find out what the Druids wanted. Magic users were still, after all, Merlin’s responsibility, and he didn’t know what sort of help they were looking for.

He took the car into town instead of his motorcycle, as the noisy engine would probably wake up the entire city. The Golf was a lot less conspicuous on the dark and deserted roads, especially with the headlights off. He didn’t run into any nightly patrols along the silent drive, but he still killed the engine a few blocks from the Cathedral and finished the journey on foot. 

The night was bitingly cold, and the moonlight was obscured by clouds tinted black against the sky. Stray snowflakes filtered down, all of them melting as soon as they hit the earth. Merlin zipped up his jacket and rubbed his palms together in front of his face, blowing warmth onto them in grey puffs.

It wasn’t much warmer inside the Cathedral. The nave was cast in total shadow, and Merlin stood blinking in the entrance for a few moments until his eyes adjusted. The great pillars arched along the sides of the nave, but most of the gold and the precious artefacts in the tombs, even some of the bones, had been stolen after the War. 

Merlin heard breathing echoing from somewhere in the pews. The sound was made louder by the dark and the cold, and Merlin heard it catch. “Emrys,” Aurora said. She had been sitting in a pew nearest Jane Austen’s tomb, and she swivelled around to face him. She rose as if she were a concession following the instructions of worship from a bishop. Merlin had half a mind to tell her she was facing the wrong way; Jesus was hanging above the alter.

The stone carvings towering behind the alter cast their ever-present eyes on Merlin as he paced up the aisle. He searched for any other shadows that could be listening in. He saw none and, when he let his magic snake its arms throughout the immediate area, he sensed nothing either. They were alone.

“I was starting to think you weren’t coming,” Aurora admitted, looking a little sheepishly at the floor.

Apologetically, he told her, “I came as soon as I could.” He squinted at her in the low light, realising her shoulders were no longer bare, as they had been in Guildhall. Gwen had sent bundles of clothes to the hospital and the shelters the refugees were put up in. He was glad to see there had been coats sent, too.

“Sit. You’ve been through an ordeal. You must be tired,” he offered, gesturing to the pew and sitting first so Aurora wouldn’t refuse. He turned his body fully towards her, leveraging his arm on the wooden back, to show her his attention. 

“It wasn’t that bad. I knew we would be rescued before the lorry reached the auction,” she told him, and let out a few apologetic sounds when she saw the confusion on his face. She back-tracked, “My mum—she’s the chief of our tribe. She has the gift of sight. She saw the kidnappings in Brighton. She knew the victims would be rescued and taken to Winchester. She knew it would be the perfect way to get to you.” 

Merlin didn’t know whether to be flattered or appalled that the Druids would go through so much unnecessary trouble to speak with him. “You’re mother sent her _daughter_ into the hands of slave traders to talk to _me_?” 

He hadn’t meant to sound so judgmental, but Aurora didn’t seem to notice. She scoffed out a laugh. “Yeah, right. I practically had to _beg_ her and my dad. You know parents.” Suddenly, she seemed unsure, and once more awkward. “Um . . . Don’t you?”

When Merlin realised she was asking whether or not he had parents, he couldn’t help but laugh. “Yes, I do.”

“Sorry! I just—I thought, maybe—.” 

“I sprouted from sea foam as a full-grown adult one day?”

“No!”

Despite the dark, her already flushed cheeks from the cold deepened their colour. Merlin wondered if he had ever been that young. He wasn’t certain, but Aurora was so very young, too young to be on her own in such a dangerous world. But then he thought of the other girl from her tribe who might have been sent in her place if Aurora hadn’t gone, and he knew at once she hadn’t begged her mother for the novelty of adventure.

She’d risked herself so they wouldn’t have to risk another. 

He’d seen inside her mind, and what he saw was a very brave young woman. He resented it. She shouldn’t have to be brave. 

“Your mother could have come to Winchester, you know? You didn’t have to be so secretive.”

“We’re Druids. We didn’t know if Arthur would accept us,” she said, and the words cut a little. Sometimes, Merlin still wondered if Arthur hated everything magic but him.

“But you knew I would.”

She nodded, and he shook his head in wonder of her.

“I thought there weren’t any more Druids. I thought they all disbanded once the Old Religion died out.” 

She nodded again rapidly. “They did! I mean, kind of. There’s like, this whole Druid history book my dad made me read. It said that, when our ancestors lost the source of their magic, some of them went off and started practicing other magicks and some of them just stopped altogether because they wanted to be normal and magic users were still outsiders and everything. So, a bunch of Druids cut ties with their tribes, but some of them still passed down their stories and kept it going through the generations. And in the eighteen-hundreds, some people even tried to go back to the old ways, and lived off the land and dressed up in weird clothes and did rituals and things to be in touch with their roots.”

Merlin nodded the whole way through as he tried to keep up. She talked very quickly. But he remembered some of the new age Druids she was talking about. Really, he thought they were a farce more than anything—just a strange cult with no real magical abilities. He never actually considered they were real Druid descendants.

“Anyway,” Aurora continued, “about a hundred years ago—.”

“The Old Religion started coming back,” Merlin finished, realising where she was headed.

“Right! And the tribes started reforming again,” she said. “People like my Great Gran went round looking for other people who were Druid descendants, because a lot of people didn’t even know they were! On top of that, there were people who weren’t Druids who wanted to learn magic, and they joined the tribes, too. They tried to stay underground because of all the laws against magic, so the tribes were still really scattered. But then the War started.”

“And you banded together in earnest,” Merlin guessed. It made sense to seek out your own kind in such times. His eyes flashed back to Aurora. “How old were you when the bombs went off?”

“Four,” she answered with a shrug so casual it could only be performed by someone who had never known the world before its current state. He wondered how much she remembered from the days before the War, but he didn’t ask. They had to look to the future.

“You said you needed my help?” he asked, getting to the reason for their meeting.

At once, Aurora no longer appeared young. The shadows played on her face like they carried a weight on her. “The Neos have been targeting our people. We can’t stay in one place for too long, because they’ll hunt us down if we do. Even then, they find us. All the time, Druids go missing from our camps. They try to recruit us towards their cause. When we refuse, they torture us or kill us. They think we’re traitors to other magic users.”

“You don’t think you’re superior to those without magic?”

She shook her head, her eyes a long way away. “We just want to live in peace.”

It was all the Druids ever wanted, and Merlin thought maybe now the world would be on their side. Most people just wanted the fighting to stop, but there would always be those hungry for war. Peace could never be achieved with such people in power—not for the Druids, not for Arthur, not for anyone.

“Sometimes you have to fight for peace, you know?”

Her eyes widened as she understood his meaning. “Oh! Well, I can’t speak for my mum or her councillors, or any of the other tribe leaders, but I’m sure the Druids will help in any way we can. If it means the safety of our people—if it means—.” 

“Having a home?”

“Being accepted,” she corrected wistfully.

“Same thing,” Merlin told her.

She seemed to consider it, and after a pause she said, “If mum can have a meeting with King Arthur, maybe we can find some way to work together?” She had tried to pass the idea off as though she had just come up with it, but Merlin knew better. The pitch in her tone had changed slightly. She hadn’t come to Winchester seeking guidance. She had come to beg an audience with the court. How could Merlin not realise that before?

The Druids wanted to speak with Arthur, not him.

Merlin hadn’t even considered involving Arthur in any of this. Suddenly, he was wary of what Aurora had told him. He knew she was innocent, and that she truly believed in what she was saying. But that didn’t mean her mother’s intentions were so pure. This could have been a set-up. They could have been in league with Morgana. 

But what if they weren’t? What if they were really offering their help? What if they truly did wish to be accepted and live in peace with the rest of Britain? This could be Merlin’s chance to finally fulfil his destiny. This could be his _one_ opportunity to live in the light, and to ensure no one else with magic ever needed to suffer as he had. 

Merlin stared down at his lap. Arthur’s history with the Druids was a shaky one, but perhaps now it would be different. Merlin tried to tell himself Arthur was more accepting of magic, even if he was still cautious. Besides, Arthur was destined to unite Albion, magic users included. That had always been part of the prophecy, hadn’t it?

Something sat in Merlin’s stomach like led. Arthur had always been happy to leave the Druids alone during his reign, but he never considered joining forces with them. Merlin found himself nervous of what Arthur might say when Merlin brought him this information. Using magical creatures that could be controlled was one thing, but forming an alliance with magical _people_ . . . 

Merlin wasn’t so sure he wanted to know how Arthur would react to the proposition. 

Aurora dipped her head forward, filling Merlin’s silence with an eager, “If I contact my mum tonight, she and the advisors can be here by midday tomorrow.”

Merlin steeled himself, not wanting to show his apprehension when he looked at her. She deserved at least a glimmer of hope. But he had a lot of thinking to do, and he had to decide if he really trusted the Druids or if he only wanted to. Aurora needed hope, but he couldn’t allow himself the same luxury. It was too dangerous.

“Don’t do anything yet,” he told her, pushing a patient half-smile to his face. “I will speak to Arthur. I’ll let you know his answer as soon as I can.”

As though Arthur had already agreed to the meeting, Aurora’s shoulders dropped with a heave of relief. “Thank you, Emrys!”

“ _Merlin_ , please,” he urged. “If you keep calling me _Emrys_ , I might disappoint you.”

She shook her head, her eyes shining like stars as she searched his face. “You haven’t yet.”

“Ah, well, the night is young!”

But it really wasn’t. Merlin hadn’t realised how late it had gotten. It must have been close to one in the morning now. He saw no clock telling the time, but it felt late. He could feel the night setting into his bones.

He stood up, and she quickly followed his lead. He wished she would stop treating him with such reverence. After all this time, he still didn’t feel like he was anyone who deserved to be seen as special. 

The name Emrys felt as foreign to him now as it did when he’d first heard it. In Camelot, he’d only used the name when it served a purpose—against enemies, with people he needed sway over, when Arthur’s life was in danger. Any other time, he was never comfortable with it. He’d simply just gotten tired of trying to make people stop calling him by that name. 

And then Arthur had died, and Camelot fell. And Merlin was lost for such a long time. He let himself be Emrys. But it was different now, with all his friends returned. He didn’t feel like a legend. For the first time in a long time, he just felt like Merlin.

It wouldn’t be right to lie to Aurora about that, especially when she _needed_ him to be Emrys.

“Come on. I’ll drive you back to where you’re staying. It’s too cold to walk,” he offered, deciding that, tonight, he would be Merlin and nothing more.

She seemed happy for the kindness, and followed him out of the church.

Merlin blasted the heat when they got into the car, his fingers numb around the steering wheel. Its hissing air was the only sound filling the silence until Merlin dropped her off at the public shelter, and then he drove back to the manor.

All the windows were dark, and Merlin gave a sharp breath of relief that Arthur was still sleeping. Maybe he still had this sneaking around lark down to a science, after all. It was like riding a bicycle, he supposed: one never forgot how to do it. 

Once inside the warm comfort of the shadowy foyer, where he could still smell the earthy scent of smoke from the fireplaces lingering, he shut the front doors as silently as he could and locked them. He slipped out of his boots and padded quietly towards the stairs.

Suddenly, the entire room was flooded with light as the wall sconces flipped on. “Where the hell have you been sneaking off to?”

Merlin nearly jumped out of his skin.

Half a moment later, he caught sight of Arthur, who had stepped in from the parlour, where he had apparently been waiting to scare Merlin half to death. He clutched his heart, trying to stop it from hammering. His magic, too, was racing around inside of him and sending off sparks. He tried to reel it in, and ignored the fact that he could have killed Arthur if he didn’t have so much control over it.

“ _God_!” Merlin yelled. “You _creep_! What the fuck are you doing, lurking in the shadows like that? How long were you waiting round to make that kind of dramatic entrance?”

Arthur crossed his arms over his chest and his brows shot into his fringe. He looked rather victorious at having caught Merlin while he was trying to be stealthy. “Lurking? I could accuse you of the same thing.”

Merlin dropped his shoulders in a sigh, finally feeling his pulse return to normal. It was no use hiding it now. “I was with Aurora, the refugee from today. She’s a Druid.” 

Arthur stood up straighter, suddenly on high alert. “A what?” 

“Not a Neo,” Merlin assured, holding up his palms like a barricade in case Arthur decided to jump into immediate defensive action.

Instead, Arthur was stunned. “You mean . . .? She’s a _Druid_ -Druid? I thought there weren’t any left.”

“You’re not the only one.”

“Well, what does she want? Were you spying on her? Is _she_ a spy?”

Arthur was getting ahead of himself. Merlin had to nip his thoughts in the bud before he convinced himself Aurora was up to no good. “No. I spoke with her.” 

Merlin wasn’t ready for this conversation. He thought he would have more time to prepare what he was going to say. He thought, at least, he’d have the night to sleep on it. However, it didn’t seem like time was on his side so, choosing his words carefully, he began, “The Druids are being hunted by the Neos. They’re seeking your help. Aurora’s tribe leader wants to meet with you.”

Now, Arthur looked properly thrown. He didn’t say anything for what felt like a lifetime, and with every passing moment, Merlin’s confidence sank lower. He wished he could swallow his words and start them anew. Perhaps he shouldn’t have been so quick to tell Arthur about the Druids.

Finally, when Arthur spoke, he said slowly, “You don’t think this is some kind of trick, do you? The Druids could be working with the Neos already.” 

In truth, Merlin wanted to deny it. On the car ride home, he’d tried telling himself to trust the Druids. However, that trust failed the moment he looked at Arthur and saw all the horrible things that could happen if he were mistaken.

“I don’t know,” Merlin admitted. “But I think Aurora wouldn’t have told me who she was if they just wanted to spy on us. I know she at least can be trusted. If there is some scheme against us, she knows nothing of it. She’s powerful. She was able to get inside my mind, but she let me into hers, too.”

Again, there was a pause, into which Arthur seemed to consider something. Then, he said, “That sounds vaguely inappropriate.”

Arthur was joking. Merlin didn’t know whether or not to take it as a good sign. The hope inside of him soared, and he tried desperately to put it back into its cage. 

“Are you considering meeting with them?” 

“Do you think it a good idea?”

Merlin found himself smiling. He had to fight it off his face, but the very prospect of Arthur accepting other magicians made him breathless. “I do. We could benefit from having more magic on our side. I’m tired of carrying all the weight.”

Arthur nodded and placed his hands on his hips, looking off in thought. “I suppose I owe them at least a conversation for all I’ve done to their ancestors. Fine,” he decided. “Have Aurora send word to her people.”

“Really?” Merlin was surprised. “You don’t want to meet with her yourself first?”

Arthur shot him an impatient glare. “I thought you said she’s just the messenger, Merlin. _You’ve_ already heard all she has to say. Maybe I trust your judgment.” 

“Well,” Merlin said, “it’s about time.”

Arthur shrugged impassively. “You’ve been known to have good judgment in the past. You did marry me.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I think I’ve made better decisions.”

Arthur rolled his eyes and reached for the light switch. “Let’s both stop lurking now, shall we?”

Merlin trudged up the stairs after him.

 

///

 

The next morning, the Chief Druid and her council were received in Guildhall. Arthur waited for them in the main hall of the building, Merlin, Gwen, and Gaius at his sides. All night, Arthur imagined how the meeting might go. He had never had such dealings with Druids before, and that made him nervous. Maybe this was a bad idea. Uther would certainly think that way.

Arthur tried to remind himself that, sorcerers or not, these Druids were still British. Thus, they were still his responsibility. He owed it to them as their king to listen to their troubles and do all he could to help.

However, despite telling himself they were normal people, he wasn’t convinced. His stomach churned and a sour taste sat in his mouth. He was meeting with Druids. How would he react upon seeing them? Would he draw his sword or beg their forgiveness for all he’d done to their kind?

The doors of the hall opened, and the knights filed in to stand along the windows. Behind them, came Winchester’s newest guests, led by a short middle-aged woman.

The chief was flanked by three men on each side, all of who were wearing loose hooded sweatshirts that appeared to have not been washed in quite some time. Arthur thought back to the Druids of old, and tried to picture them in torn jeans and workmen boots. He couldn’t, but he supposed their rags were equivalent to those worn by their modern day descendants.

However, the smell that accompanied them was the same. Arthur tried to remind himself that they didn’t have the same luxuries he did, and tried his best to not be repulsed by the odour.

When the woman and her group halted a few feet from Arthur, he said, “Welcome. My name is Arthur Pendragon." 

The woman seemed mildly amused. “I know. I foresaw your return.” 

Arthur tried not to look surprised. Merlin had mentioned last night that the woman was a seer, but Arthur had not expected her to predict him, of all things. He wondered how her visions worked. Did she watch future events unfold in her head as though on a screen, or did she get flashes of images? Or did she see nothing at all, but only became aware of the information, like a forgotten memory in reverse?

He didn’t remember much about the day of his return, and he wondered if she knew more than he did. 

“Did you?” he asked, quickly glancing at Merlin out of the corners of his eyes before returning them to the Druids.

“I’m Sonia of the Durham Druids,” she said.

_Durham_ , Arthur speculated. Her tribe was in the middle of the Neos’ territory. 

“We’ve brought you a gift from our home as a token of good faith.” She motioned towards a man on her left, who stepped forward and held out the clothed item like an offering. 

Leon collected it from him and brought it to Arthur, who removed the dirty flannel so reveal a heavy piece of stone carved into the shape of an ox horn. The stone was smooth but weatherworn, except on the base, which looked like it had been torn from the rest of the statue. He wasn’t quite sure what it meant, even after Sonia explained, “It is a horn of the Dun Cow from Durham’s Cathedral before it was destroyed. It depicted the legend of how Durham was founded, and now it’s all we have left of our home. We had to escape the city quickly after the Neos took charge.” 

“Thank you,” Arthur said, pushing a smile to his face. Though the token may appear worthless, he knew it held great value to these people. It didn’t seem like something he should take lightly. It didn’t feel right to take it from them at all, but he knew better than to refuse it. He didn’t want to get off on the wrong foot.

“We will put it in a place of great honour,” wherever the hell that was. Sonia seemed pleased, so Arthur handed it back to Leon to store it away for safekeeping. 

“We have also brought something for the Emrys,” said Sonia, her eyes settling over Arthur’s shoulder on Merlin. She bowed her head, and her councillors followed in suit. 

Arthur had to fight back a laugh, but it got out as choked noise in his throat. He looked at Gwen and Gaius, who seemed equally as amused, though they were better at hiding it. Then, he looked at Merlin, who was suddenly fascinated by the ceiling. 

“ _Emrys_ , I believe our guests have a gift for you,” Arthur said, knowing he’d get hell for it later. Merlin hated being the centre of attention, but he’d have to get over it. He was integral to this meeting whether he liked it or not; and, besides, it was his idea in the first place.

Arthur kept his eyes on Sonia as he gestured for Merlin to step forward.

He could feel the quick death stare Merlin shot him seeping into his spine, but Merlin came forward nonetheless. He certainly wasn’t a statesman. He was far too uncomfortable as he gave an awkward wave and said in a small voice, “Hello.” 

Arthur wanted to roll his eyes, but managed by the grace of god not to. Not that the Druids would have noticed. They were all _still_ bowing their heads. Nevertheless, Merlin would have to get lessons in court etiquette if he were to be consort—and he _would_ be. He’d come around eventually. 

“Emrys, thank you for making this day possible,” Sonia said, and Arthur wondered if she was speaking about the peace talks or in general. “Accept this as a token of our gratitude.”

She reached into her satchel for something, and Arthur’s heart jumped in a visceral reaction. He couldn’t help the alarms that went off in his mind, the need to reach for his sword at his side in defence against whatever danger this Druid woman was about to unleash.

But then, before he could react, she pulled out something rather innocuous. It looked like an hourglass, its delicate curves caged by iron handles. Inside, instead of the sands of time, was water that sparkled quite strangely in the light. It seemed to shimmer, like silver flecks swam within it. 

Arthur didn’t know why, but it made him uneasy. There was something about the water that reminded him of something else—something he’d forgotten. He could almost feel it around him, icy and absolute. It rushed silence in his ears and tasted brackish in his mouth. He felt strangely like he was floating, swaying like a reed in a current. 

He blinked away from the hourglass, not wanting to look at it.

“Where did you get that?” Merlin gasped out as though the thing were impossible. 

“What is it?” Gwen asked. “I would like to know the nature of such a lovely gift.”

Arthur didn’t want to know. Although, he thought he already did somehow. 

“It’s water from the Lake of Avalon,” Sonia said, and it didn’t surprise Arthur one bit. He firmed his jaw until it ached under the strain. He became more distrustful of Sonia’s presence in Winchester than he had been before.

What was this? Some kind of message from Morgana? Was she threatening to send Arthur back to Avalon?

“It has been passed down through the generations in my family for thousands of years. In times when there is no hope, the magic of these waters can guide the way,” Sonia finished.

“I’ve seen one of these before,” Merlin said heavily. He looked back at Gaius briefly as they shared another memory Arthur was not attuned to.

Arthur cast another glance at the water held between Merlin’s hands like it was the most precious thing in the world. He was torn between shattering the glass to destroy the object and wanting to keep the liquid contained inside its prism where it could do no harm.

“Thank you,” Merlin said to the Druids with immense gratitude in his tone. 

Arthur stood straighter to draw in everyone’s attention. He wanted to get this greeting over with so he could get Gwen and Gaius’ first impressions of the Druids. He trusted Gaius’ knowledge of the people, even if it was outdated, and he trusted Gwen’s reasoning. Merlin would be far too biased in the matter, considering how he’d just reacted to the gift. Right now, Arthur’s gut was telling him to put distance between himself and the Druids.

Or perhaps it wasn’t his gut. Perhaps it was his father’s voice.

“You all must be very tired from your long journey. Sir Leon will show you to your residence so you may get some rest,” Arthur told them, and then looked at Leon. “Leon, stay with them for a while and ensure they have everything they need.”

Leon bowed his head dutifully. He’d heard the true meaning of Arthur’s words, as Arthur knew only Leon could. “Sire.” 

Arthur was just about to end the meeting, but Gwen stepped forward and said, “Before you go, I must ask, where are the rest of your tribe? Merlin has told us your tribe is nomadic. Have your people accompanied you into the city?”

In his worry about those immediately in front of him, Arthur had completely forgotten about the army of Druids that could be forming at his doorstep as they spoke. Gwen’s eyes flickered to Arthur meaningfully, though her expression remained pleasant. 

He wasn’t sure if she shared his reservations, or if she’d asked the question to put his mind to rest. Either way, thank god for her.

“Our people have made camp in the forest outside the city,” Sonia told her.

Gwen’s brow crumpled in concern. “There are creatures of magic within that forest, not to mention the snows. Surely, you have children and elderly among you.” 

Sonia smiled kindly, but also in a sad way that told Arthur she was accustomed to not having a roof over her head. “We have survived many nights like this before, and we’ll do so again,” she assured Gwen. “And don’t worry about the creatures. We have our ways of warding them off. They leave the camp alone.” 

Arthur was all too aware of both Merlin and Gwen’s eyes on him. They weighed him down and, though both of them were silent, they might as well have been screaming at him. He hated it when they ganged up on him like that. It was hardly fair.

He knew what they wanted him to do, but it went against all of his instincts. He didn’t want to invite the Druids into Winchester. If they really were in league with the Neos, they could be relying on Arthur’s hospitality as part of some nefarious plan. 

However, if they remained outside of the city, it would be harder to keep an eye on what they were up to. At least, inside Winchester, the patrols could report any suspicious activity.

Besides, Gwen was right, there _were_ most likely children with them. Arthur couldn’t leave the innocent without a place to stay. 

“We will dispatch a company to move your people into the city,” Arthur decided.

Sonia seemed hesitant. She didn’t say anything for a few beats. “That’s kind of you,” she said finally, slowly. “We weren’t sure if we would be welcome in Winchester.” 

It sounded like an accusation. It felt like one, too. Thinking back to laws of Camelot, maybe Arthur deserved it.

But, thinking about how this might be a trick, maybe Arthur was right to keep them out.

“Winchester welcomes all that do not wish it harm,” he said politically after raising his chin. He tried to keep the edge out of his voice, but he wasn’t sure he could keep it out of his gaze as it locked on Sonia. 

Sonia did not back down. “Thank you, but the tribe will remain in the camp for the time being. I hope we can come to an agreement, sire, but until we do I feel the best place for my people is with each other.” 

Arthur found that very interesting. The Druids said they wished to live amongst the world in peace, and yet they chose to keep to themselves. Arthur wondered if they were hiding from something, or if they had something to hide.

“Very well,” he said, but he did not accept her answer. There was another way to get a feel for the camp and the tribe’s people. “You have given me a sign of good faith, and I will reciprocate. Enough provisions to last the duration of your stay will be brought to your camp. Food, blankets, wood for the fires, and whatever else you may need. Guinevere will accompany my knights to ensure your people are comfortable, and Gaius will tend to any of their medical needs.” 

He hated the thought of sending Gwen and Gaius into potential danger, but the knights would be there in case anything went wrong. And Arthur doubted the Druids would attempt anything before the meeting, anyway.

He could not go to the camp himself, even though he’d like to see with his own eyes. But Gwen and Gaius’ judgment was the next best thing. Their impressions of the Druids were crucial, and they’d no doubt uncover information Arthur never could while speaking to them. 

“I appreciate that,” Sonia said a little breathlessly, and Arthur was thankful she didn’t resist. Though, it’s not exactly like she could resist without appearing secretive. “The camp is east of here. It’s cloaked, but Emrys will be able to find the way.”

It felt like a drop of ice had fallen down Arthur’s back. “No,” he said shortly, and much too reflexively, before he could stop himself. He did not want Merlin to go. Merlin could very well be the reason the Druids were there. He could be their target. Without Merlin, Winchester was as good as defenceless against Morgana’s magic. 

“Merlin must remain here,” Arthur excused, collecting himself and keeping his voice even. “He has duties to attend to.”

Sonia said nothing. She appeared to be thinking, but she was looking right at Merlin. Merlin returned her gaze with rapt attention. It took Arthur a moment to realise they were communicating. 

“It’s fine, Arthur. I’ll go to the camp,” Merlin said once he broke eye contact. Arthur wanted to shake him, to demand to know what Sonia told him. “Whatever _duties_ I have can be put off for now. Nothing’s more important than today’s meeting, right?” 

Arthur tried not to grind his teeth. “Right.”

“Then, it’s settled.” The smile on Merlin’s face was far too cheerful. Why didn’t he ever just do as he was told?

Arthur pushed a smile, too, all teeth. “Of course. Sonia, if you could please follow Sir Leon. I will dispatch the company to your camp as soon as the provisions are ready.”

“Thank you, King Arthur,” Sonia said as she and her advisors bowed again. “I look forward to our meeting tonight.”

The crowd dispersed. As it did, Arthur caught Gwen’s eyes and tried to gauge her reaction from across the room as she followed the knights to the door. She appeared wary, but not willing to pass judgment until she had more information. She had dealings with Druids during her reign as queen. She would have better insight to them, especially after she returned from the camp. Arthur eagerly awaited her opinion. 

Leaning into Merlin, Arthur hissed between his teeth, “I hope you know what you’re doing.” 

Merlin gave him a very weary look. “Trust me, Arthur.”

“You know I do.” 

“But you don’t trust them.”

“Do _you_?”

Merlin said nothing. He only continued to stare at Arthur. It meant he didn’t have an answer yet.

Arthur let out a heavy breath. He looked down at the hourglass in Merlin’s hand and inwardly shivered. He thought about the telepathic conversation Merlin and Sonia held. “What did she say to you?” 

Merlin didn’t deny anything. He knew what Arthur was referring to. “She said there aren’t just Druids in the camp. There are other races, too—magical races that came back into the world when Avalon was opened. Some of them wouldn’t take kindly to men with swords coming in unless they were accompanied by a liaison. It’s the reason they can’t enter the city, either. Imagine how people would react.” 

Midway through, Arthur scoffed. He liked this plan less with every passing moment. “No one said anything about non-Druids, Merlin. Why did she hide that from me?”

“Not every race is as trusting as the Druids,” Merlin excused. “But the Druids could be our way towards an alliance with them, too.”

Arthur shook his head at the floor. Yes, he definitely hated this plan.

He rubbed his eyes tiredly until they were red. “If you see _anything_ suspicious in that camp, just promise me you’ll leave immediately.” 

Of course, Merlin would argue. “I can take care of myself.”

“Then, do it for Guinevere!” 

At once, Arthur knew it was the wrong thing to say. Merlin’s breath tripped like he’d been punched in the gut.

Arthur swallowed guiltily. His voice was softer as he corrected, “And Gaius. Get them out of there should there be any trouble.”

Merlin was silent, and Arthur wished he knew what thoughts were tumbling through his head. He looked as though he were remembering something. Arthur prayed it wasn’t the kiss he shared with Gwen in Buckingham.

Arthur couldn’t stand the look on Merlin’s face, but he didn’t know what to say to make it better. He started to turn away, but Merlin gripped his wrist sharply. “Arthur. I’m giving them a chance. You need to, too. You shouldn’t be so suspicious without reason. You aren’t your father.”

It was a good thing no one else was present, because Arthur’s first reaction was to rage. His anger boiled quick and hot inside of him, and he wanted so badly to defend his father’s actions. But then Merlin’s words sunk in, and Arthur knew better than to argue.

He’d tried so hard to do what he thought was right, to not let hatred and paranoia fill his heart as it had Uther’s. He’d tried so hard not to be his father.

Arthur couldn’t meet Merlin’s eyes, but he nodded softly to express his understanding. Only then did Merlin release him.

 

///

 

It was early afternoon when their company rode towards the forest on the outer limits of the city. Merlin, flanked by Gwaine and Percival, was at the front of the group, leading them towards the camp. Gwen had no idea how he knew their location, but she’d learned long ago not to ask. A handful of times during her reign, Merlin had navigated her philanthropic expeditions to Druid camps when they were in Camelot’s borders. Then, too, the locations seemed to be instinctual to him.

Next in the group came Elyan and Gaius. Gwen and Lancelot rode side-by-side a few feet behind them. Aurora shared Lancelot’s saddle, and she spooked nearly as easily as a horse. Each time the beast shook a fly from its mane or hastened to a trot, she yelped softly and tightened her grip around Lancelot’s waist. 

“Have you never ridden before?” Gwen had asked her shortly into their journey.

“I’ve never even been up close to a horse!” Aurora had answered, sounding both thrilled and terrified. Gwen shared a humoured look with Lancelot, but he never once complained about Aurora’s reliance on him.

Behind them, a number of servants and maids were tending to the wagons carrying the provisions. Arthur had sent half a dozen soldiers along to guard them from foes during their travels, but Gwen was certain their true purpose was to guard them from the Druids.

Every now and again, much to everyone’s awe, Dagnija’s shadow would streak over the ground, and she’d swoop down low to let Merlin know she was still nearby should he need her. Then, with a great beat of her wings that sent a whoosh of air through Gwen’s hair, she would disappear back over the hills. 

A little over an hour into the journey, Merlin led them into the woods. For a while, they were able to stick to a trail, but they eventually had to veer off into the thick bramble between the trunks. The horses were reined and left in the care of two guards as the rest continued on foot.

Decaying leaves crunched and slid from frost beneath Gwen’s boots as she followed in Merlin’s footsteps. She preoccupied herself with avoiding the spidery thickets that could tear at her clothes and skin, and paid mind to not walking into any low-hanging branches. She spoke intermittently with Aurora, who told her as best she could about the differences between old and modern day Druids.

From what Gwen could glean, much of their ancient customs had been lost to time, but their nature remained much the same. They were still kindly, pacifistic people who revered the natural world. Or so Aurora claimed.

Truthfully, Gwen was careful, if not a little cautious, of the Druids’ role in the modern world. She weighed her thoughts as she considered their motives. Arthur clearly did not trust them and, while his apprehensions held merit, Gwen was not so quick to pass judgment. Prejudices against magic had been widespread in Camelot and her neighbouring kingdoms, and yet (save for a few tribes) the Druids remained peaceful. 

However, in this new world, they had a choice to change that. Those with magic had ruthless power over the provinces, and at last the Druids could have the freedom they’ve always craved. Perhaps they were inclined to take that opportunity, and all this was a ruse.

Gwen resolved to keep her mind open during her visit to the camp. There was no better way to find out the people’s temperament than to speak with individuals. Even when people tried to hide their agendas, they could so rarely mask their anger and unhappiness. Gwen would use conversation as her gauge to judge the Druids’ intent.

Gwen realised she’d been deep in thought only after she’d been knocked out of it. It was a gentle sound that caused her mind to stop reeling. A woman was singing. It was faint, merely drifting on the breeze, and for a moment it sounded as though the trees themselves might have been singing the tune.

She was not the only one who heard it. Merlin halted, and Gwaine put his hand up to signal the group to stop. Slowly, everyone else froze, and those hauling the carts dropped their load. Lancelot’s fist rested on the hilt of his sword, and Gwen realised the knights and soldiers were doing the same with their weapons.

She could not blame them for it. There was something about the song. It was too calming, in a way that forces one off one’s guard. It felt as though it were meant to lull someone to sleep. Gwen remembered the dagger hidden beneath her coat, but did not move to touch it.

“It’s the nymphs,” Aurora whispered, and Gwen was certain only she had heard the words.

“The woman singing?” Gwen asked, keeping her voice low, too, though she did not know why.

“Wo _men_ ,” Aurora corrected, smiling happily. “It’s the wood nymphs. The camp is close!”

Something flashed in the corner of Gwen’s eyes. At first, she thought she’d imagined it, but then it happened again. Around her, heads swivelled in every direction as though they, too, had seen something. 

Within a moment, they weren’t flashes anymore. Golden balls of light, at least three dozen of them, flitted overhead. They dipped and swirled through the air and tinted the tree trunks amber as they flew passed. 

Some of them descended curiously into the group. One zipped into view in front of Gwen’s eyes and hovered there, level with her nose, for a few seconds. Gwen gasped softly upon realising the balls of light were actually small, glowing creatures. A miniature man, clothed in tattered fabric, tilted his head at her, and a set of wings on his back flapped as quickly as a hummingbird’s.

“They’re faeries,” Gwen said after the creature flew away again. She looked to Aurora, who was giggling as six lights danced around her. Beside her, Lancelot was gazing up to the canopy, watching the faeries in awe. The sight of him was spectacular in the radiant golden hue, and Gwen allowed herself to stare. Presently, his eyes met hers, and his smile softened to match the one she wore.

The faeries became less shy as the moments passed, and soon the lot of them were mingling with the company. Some landed on people’s heads or shoulders like fireflies. Gwen was certain they meant them no harm, and everyone else appeared to think the same. Easiness fell over the group, and Gwen felt welcomed.

She looked to Merlin, who was holding up his hand for three faeries. They walked along the lines of his palm and jumped from each tip of his fingers. Two others crawled on his wrist. Gwen could not count how many were flying about his head because they moved too quickly, but the majority of the faeries congregated around him, wanting to see him for themselves.

Gaius leaned in to study the creatures on Merlin’s hand, but two of them jumped up and stole his glasses right off his nose. It was much to his dismay, and Gwen tried to hold in her laughter, which was impossible to do after Merlin began chortling at Gaius’ expense. 

Meanwhile, Gwaine, Percival, and Elyan made a game out of trying to make the most faeries land on them.

Suddenly, Lancelot appeared at Gwen’s side. His eyes were still on the trees, but his expression was as gentle as his voice as he said, “Gwen, look.” She followed his line of vision and found a very beautiful woman peering around a tree trunk at them. A crown of gold and brown leaves circled her long auburn hair, and her brown eyes were big as she stared warily. Despite the cold, she was only wearing a thin, pristinely white dress that swept the forest floor. 

Gwen realised the woman was hiding behind the tree, unsure whether it was safe to come out. She risked a tentative step closer and said, “You do not have to be afraid.”

The woman gasped skittishly, like a spooked deer, and suddenly disappeared into thin air. Gwen’s heart leapt from the shock.

“S’alright,” Gwen heard Merlin cooing. The faeries still around him, Gwen found him kneeling, holding out his hand, and grinning softly at one of the trees. “We’re not gonna hurt you. We’re friends.” 

A hand, slender and ebony in complexion, reached out from behind the thick trunk. It grasped his tenderly, and he led a woman into view. She was of similar description to the one Gwen had seen, though she was taller and her hair fell in silver currents.

“Hello, Emrys,” the woman said, sounding like the singing they’d heard before. “I am Lota of the Forest Nymphs.” As she spoke, more women tentatively revealed themselves from behind the trees. Gwen counted nine of them.

They wound circles around some in their company, and inspected the carts with interest. One of them ghosted her palm over Elyan’s face; another gripped Percival’s arm; two took Gwaine by the hands. One ran her fingers through Lancelot’s hair, and at least he tried to seem discomforted by it. Everyone else appeared to be enjoying it immensely.

“Lota, we’re looking for your camp. We’ve brought provisions for those who need it,” Merlin told the nymph. 

She jumped in excitement and grabbed his hand again. “This way, Emrys! We will take you!” She dragged him through the trees, leaving him no choice but to run along with her. The other nymphs promptly scampered off in the same direction. Gwen and the rest of the company hurried to keep up. 

Gwen pitied those hauling the carts. Judging by the way Merlin kept looking over his shoulder, he felt badly about moving so quickly, too.

Soon, amongst the trees, tents began cropping up. They were nothing like the tents of the old Druids, which were sticks and ripped cloth. These tents, though worn and dirty, were brightly coloured, adorned with functional flaps and zippers, and made of manufactured materials. Besides the tents of varying sizes, the camp was much like Gwen expected. Laundry was hung out to dry on tree limbs, fire pits cackled and the sweet smell of smoke wafted, and the camp hummed with activity. 

Lota let go of Merlin’s hand before they passed the first tent, and she gleefully disappeared back into the forest. The other nymphs followed her lead. The light of the faeries also dispersed.

As they trudged into the camp, they earned fearful looks from the Druids, until each person saw Aurora with them. To some, Aurora greeted verbally or with a wave. Gwen hardly noticed, as her eyes were on the more exotic figures of the camp. She tried not to gawk when they crossed paths with two individuals whose heads almost reached halfway to the forest’s canopy.

“Pervical, I think I found your mother,” Elyan teased once the giants were out of earshot. Percival, along with Merlin and Gwaine, laughed. 

“Now, Elyan,” Gwen reproved, though there was humour in her voice. When he glanced back at her, she trained her face into the scolding look she used to give him when he was a child who’d given too much cheek to an adult. Just as it used to then, the mischief in Elyan’s smirk deepened. 

Gwen quickened her pace to walk beside Merlin, as did Lancelot. “Aurora said her father is in charge of the camp while her mother is in the city. We should meet with him.”

“You go,” Merlin told her. “I’ll see what I can do to assist Gaius.” 

Gwen didn’t argue, because she knew how much Merlin hated having attention on him, which must have worsened as the years went on. It was as though he were allergic to taking credit for anything.

After Arthur’s death, Gwen had tried very hard to elevate Merlin’s status in court, but he always refused. The only reason he begrudgingly took the position as court physician after Gaius had passed was because he was the only one qualified, as he was, after all, Gaius’ apprentice. 

Although Merlin had been Gwen’s most trusted advisor, the title was never official. She’d tried to make it so many times, but he declined. After she’d given up on that, she tried to make him a free man of Camelot. He adamantly would not accept it, though Gwen treated him as such and he acted freely.

But, in his heart, Merlin always saw himself as a servant of Camelot. Arthur’s servant. It was all he ever wanted. Gwen wondered if, after so long, Merlin still regarded himself that way. She hoped not, but she was convinced it was so. It was why he was so uneasy with becoming consort, among other reasons, she was sure. 

So, she merely nodded, and Merlin trailed after Gaius through the tents.

The rest of the company stopped and Gwen instructed them to start unloading the carts and distributing the provisions. She asked Aurora, “Where might your father be? We should speak.” 

“Probably in the counsellor’s circle. It’s in the middle of the camp. I’ll take you to him,” Aurora offered. Gwen moved to follow her, and Lancelot did the same.

It made Gwen stop and face him. “Lancelot, help in the distribution.” She wondered why he hadn’t done that on his own accord. He knew he was of more use to the Druids than he was to Gwen at the moment.

However, he shook his head. “I’m coming with you.”

Perhaps he was wary of the Druids’ business, too, and his concern touched her. But, “It isn’t necessary. I will be fine on my own.” If there was an ulterior motive, she doubted the Druids would strike so soon.

“I’m sure of it,” said Lancelot patiently, “but I’m not to leave your side. Arthur’s orders.” 

This surprised Gwen. “Are they?” She thought Arthur might provide her with a personal guard, as he usually had when she travelled without him. However, she never expected it to be a soldier of Lancelot’s status. 

That was until she noticed Gwaine closely following Merlin around like a puppy. Either Arthur was as oblivious to subtly as he’d always been, or he’d purposely chosen the knight who cared the most for Gwen and Merlin respectively.

“Well, then,” Gwen said, deciding to accept it. “Shall we?”

She and Lancelot hooked arms and followed Aurora to the centre of the camp, against the flow of curious people eager to see the newcomers. 

They didn’t get far before Aurora shouted, “Dad!” She ran down the path and into the arms of a greying man a little older than fifty. The two folded into each other in the tight embrace, which parted when Gwen and Lancelot caught up.

Aurora’s father scrunched his brow in perplexity at them, but he seemed friendly as he greeted them.

“Dad,” Aurora said, fitting in close to her father’s side as he put his arm around her shoulders. They looked very much alike, or perhaps that was only an illusion given by their identical smiles. “This is Queen Guinevere.”

He gasped slightly, and his eyes flickered as they viewed her in a new light. “I’m sorry, Your Majesty. I didn’t expect anyone from Winchester to come to our camp. My name is Thomas.” 

“Thomas, a pleasure,” Gwen said, taking his hand when he offered it. She put on her best stately smile, and decided to overlook Aurora’s introduction. Gwen’s title, for the moment, did not matter. “I’m here on Arthur’s behalf. He’s sent food and other supplies so that your people will remain cared for during your stay in Winchester. He’s sorry he could not be here himself.”

“Of course! No, I— _We_ understand,” Thomas stammered, seeming taken aback by the act of kindness. Clearly, the Druids were used to being shunned like lepers. “Tell him thank you. And thank _you_! It’s, well—,” he shared a giddy look with his daughter, “it’s an honour to have you with us, Queen Guinevere.”

Gwen hesitated as she felt Lancelot shuffle next to her. She couldn’t ignore the mistake twice. The last thing Arthur needed was false information being spread throughout the country. The smallest detail could harm his reputation.

Gracefully, Gwen corrected, “It is only Gwen, please. I am Arthur’s advisor, nothing more.” 

To this, Thomas seemed shocked. Aurora, too, gaped in confusion.

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” Thomas backpedalled as though he’d offended her. “I thought—That part of the legends isn’t true, then?”

Perhaps Gwen should have expected him to say that, but she hadn’t. No matter how many people gawked at her name, it still took her by surprise. She felt as though they had an expectation of her based on rumours and gossip. It was worse than what she’d dealt with as queen. At least, in those days, she could prove the rumours true or false if she wished. It was harder to do so with age-old texts imagined as fairytales. 

It was like people had not expected her, or any of them, to be flesh and bone.

“It was true,” she confirmed, “but the throne is for Arthur, as it should be. I have had by taste of ruling a kingdom, and I do not wish for it again.” That, at least, was true. She had never wanted to be queen. She had only wanted to be Arthur’s wife—once. Some days during her rule, she wondered how she had ended up in such a position. Some days, rarely, she even cursed herself for it. 

Thomas and Aurora took their cue to chuckle when Gwen did during her last words, and she noticed Lancelot, too, rumbling softly. He’d been terribly quiet and, though Gwen was grateful for his silent support, she knew his introduction would steer the subject into calmer waters. If she could not give them a queen, she could at least show them a knight. 

“Forgive me for not introducing you, Thomas. This is Sir Lancelot,” Gwen said, placing a gloved hand on Lancelot’s arm to draw attention to him. 

“Ah!” Thomas said, his eyes lighting up like he’d just heard news of a particularly juicy scandal, and as though he knew exactly why Gwen was no longer Arthur’s queen. “How do you do?”

Perhaps the introduction hadn’t done her much good, after all. Gwen wondered exactly what the legends reputed about Lancelot. Despite the cold, heat flushed Gwen’s cheeks.

“Hello,” Lancelot said, shaking Thomas’ hand. He did not seem at all flustered, and maintained his calm demeanour. “If there is any other assistance your people should require, I offer my services.”

Thomas whistled. “Thank you, sir! Isn’t he a gentleman, Rory?” 

Aurora giggled, “He’s a _knight_ , Dad! He _has_ to be.”

“Well, no. You—You’ve already done so much for us,” Thomas said, turning back to Gwen and Lancelot. His words fell heavy. “Really. It means a lot.” 

Gwen inclined her head, taking his words in stride. She couldn’t figure out if his gratitude was born of innocence or guilt. She said, “It is no trouble. We do not let our people go hungry.”

“Our people,” Thomas repeated as though testing the words out in his mouth. They seemed to sit well with him, and Gwen did not believe he was faking it. “You think we have a shot of winning the war, then?”

Gwen did not mention the fact that they were not yet allies. She hoped the Druids had not aligned themselves against Arthur. She wanted to see magic users finally accepted in the world, because she could not help them as she’d wanted to during her reign. Perhaps Arthur could bring them the peace the Druids of old deserved.

“I have every faith in Arthur,” she said in earnest. “As should you.”

“Well, it’s hard to argue with the stories you’ve been told since you were a lad,” Thomas laughed. He meant it as a compliment, but Gwen decided it was time to stop letting those silly legends rule their reputation. To hell with them, as far as she was concerned. They were trying to build a real future, not to live as fabrications. 

“I assure you, Arthur is not a story. He is very real, and he is thankful for your support,” she said, not unkindly but with enough edge in her tone to ensure Thomas was paying attention.

His expression fell softly as her words sank in.

“Dad,” Aurora whispered, giving Thomas a nudge. She was looking over Gwen’s shoulder. “Dad, look, it’s Emrys!”

Gwen peered around to find Merlin ducking out of the flap of a tent. Gaius had come out before him, quickly teetering along as he made his rounds; and Gwaine exited the tent quickly behind Merlin.

Merlin was holding Gaius’ medicine bag, seeming weighed down by its contents, much too large and heavy for his frame. He was trying to zip up one of the compartments of the bag and, in his rush, spilled a few vials to the ground only for them to shatter on the rocks.

“Merlin! What did you break this time?” Gwen heard Gaius scolding over the noises coming from the camp.

“Sorry! Sorry! I can fix it!” Merlin apologized profusely, already bending down like he could piece the glass back together and stop the liquids from soiling the earth. And maybe he could. But no one was paying him much mind, except for Gwaine, who was holding his stomach as he howled at the antics.

And, for a moment, it was any other day. They could have been in one of Camelot’s outlying villages, or at a refugee camp after a battle.

No matter how many times Gwen had witnessed Merlin achieve great and terrifying feats with only the wave of his hand, it was difficult to see him as anything but this. Lanky and clumsy, filled to the brim with awe of the world, and always harassed as he ran from place to place, either to help Gaius deliver poultices to the nobles or on some inane chore for Arthur.

Gwen remembered all the stolen minutes the two of them, still servants, spent hiding in some nook of the castle when they needed a break. They’d gossip about something Gwen had heard the maids say and Merlin would sometimes bring bread and cheese he’d stolen from the kitchens, and then they’d go back to their duties for their respective Pendragon. And neither of them ever thought time would bring them here, to a world so far away and to troubles so much bigger than they’d ever imagined.

“Really? Where?” Thomas gasped. 

“There! Ugh—Come on. I’ll show you!”

By the time Gwen swivelled her head back around, Aurora was dragging Thomas in Merlin’s direction.

“Excuse us, Queen—Um, _Gwen_ ,” he said in rapid fire. “It was an honour to meet you. I hope we meet again soon.” And, before Gwen could so much as open her mouth, he and his daughter were gone. They bound through the crowd in a fit of excitement. 

Gwen turned to watch them. Lancelot leaned into her and teased, “So much for getting them to stop going on about the legends.”

Gwen let out an exasperated breath. Thomas was introducing himself to Merlin now, shaking his hand vigorously and appearing to never let ago. Merlin’s eyes were large with dread, but his expression was polite as Thomas spoke. He’d be a good consort, Gwen mused, with some work. 

“Well, I suppose we shouldn’t take away whatever gives them faith. We do need their support,” Gwen admitted, even though she wished circumstances were different.

A circle of onlookers was forming around Merlin now as the people slowly discovered who he was. Those in the back were standing on their toes to get a better look at him, while others listened with rapt attention to whatever he was saying. Others reached out to touch him, even if only with the very tips of their fingers, as though the brief contact alone could save their souls from eternal damnation.

Merlin stood very close to Gwaine, who looked ready to defend should the moment call for it.

But Gwen did not think it would. As she watched the Druids, she understood how much they loved Merlin. To them, he was so much more than the serving boy he once was, or even a consort. Gwen had seen Druids react to his presence with reverence before, but not quite like this. He was a god. To betray him would be to betray themselves.

To betray him would be blasphemy.

Gwen narrowed her eyes, looking for reasons to not trust them. In that moment, she could not find any. 

“We should go rescue him,” she said. 

Lancelot shrugged in good humour. “Give him a few more minutes to suffer.” 

“ _Lancelot_!” Gwen gasped, but she began laughing as she caught his sparkling eyes.

They spent the rest of the afternoon at the Druid camp, rationing clothes, food, and other necessities to the families present. Gaius continued to tend to those who were in need, and adults and groups of children continually swept Merlin in different directions.

Gwen did all she could to make herself useful, but she spent most of the time learning the names of those in the camp and speaking to them about their travels throughout the country. However, they were all more interested in asking her questions about Camelot and Arthur or Merlin. She tried hard not to disappoint their expectations. 

She never heard so much of a hiccup of dissent or hatred of anything, including the Neos. There was not a complaint to be heard or a frown to be seen. Despite everything, the Druids seemed to be making the most of their situation. Their attitude towards life, Gwen found, hadn’t changed a bit since the days of old.

They left the camp a few hours before the meeting, provision carts empty and Lancelot a single rider on his horse. The Druids waved them off, and Thomas himself accompanied them back to the forest path so they would not get lost amongst the trees.

 

///

 

According to Leon, Sonia and her councillors had settled in comfortably to their accommodations. Arthur did not ask him forthright if there was any cause for alarm, and Leon did not answer forthright; but the answer was no. It didn’t quell Arthur’s nerves any. He’d officially meet with Sonia that night, and every second ticking away on the clock felt like a reaper pacing slowing toward him.

He sat in his study in the manor, unable to focus on the piles of paperwork in front of him—messages from the warfront, news from the provinces, accounts of the patrols, the status of the livestock and crop stores, and reports of Winchester’s rebuilding efforts. Gwen’s barracks on the outskirts of the city were apparently coming along nicely, but the builders on Masons Yard had run into a sinkhole and were in need of more supplies because of it. The stack of papers and folders had come, as they did every day, in the locked red briefcase with the Pendragon crest on the top and two words inscribed in gold over the latch: _the king_. It sat now on the edge of the desk on his right, emptied and opened.

However, at the moment, the words contained in the reports meant nothing to Arthur. His mind kept turning to the hourglass of water that Merlin had tucked away in the dresser of their bedroom. It was all the way across the manor, and Arthur still felt its presence, as though it were watching him. He shouldn’t have let Merlin keep it, and he shouldn’t have let him go to the Druid camp. The company had been gone for much too long.

Just as the thought crossed his mind for the hundredth time, Ainsworth knocked on the door and announced Merlin, Gwen, and Gaius’ return. Arthur felt the weight he carried lifted as they filed into the study.

“It’s about time,” he complained, standing up and gesturing to the sinking sun outside the window. “It’s nearly night. What kept you so long?”

Patiently, Gwen said, “You had told us to speak with the people at the camp.”

“I didn’t mean all of them individually.” He took in a breath, trying to calm himself. They were home. They were safe. Now, he needed their opinions. “What did you think of them?”

The three of them shared a look that made Arthur think they’d rehearsed what they wanted to say. In the end, it was Gaius who said, “We believe the Druids’ wishes to join us are genuine, sire. We felt very welcomed in their camp, and found no reason to suspect them as dangerous.”

Maybe Arthur didn’t want to believe it, because he looked to Gwen to see if she felt the same. She did. “They want the same things we do, Arthur. We should see what their chief has to say tonight and then weigh our options, but I believe they could be an asset to us." 

“You should have seen their camp!” Merlin said at once with such passion that even Gaius and Gwen looked taken aback. Clearly, they hadn’t rehearsed this bit. Merlin bounded closer to the desk, nearly bouncing in excitement as he said, “They had nymphs and—and _giants_! Real giants, Arthur!” 

Merlin’s eyes were lighting up, not in gold but with magic nonetheless. If Arthur wasn’t so suspicious, Merlin’s optimism would have captivated him; but he _was_ suspicious. Merlin was under a spell of his own making. He wanted, more than anything, to believe the Druids.

Arthur placed his hands on his hips and looked away in thought.

Attuned to his thoughts, the wonder dropped from Merlin’s expression. He licked his lips in disappointment. “You still think they want to do us harm.”

Arthur shook his head. He didn’t want to break Merlin’s heart, but he wasn’t certain what he was thinking. “I don’t know, Merlin, that’s the problem.”

“Nathara uses magic! You were fine with her,” Merlin reminded him. 

Arthur scoffed. “Well, _clearly_ , she uses her abilities for good.” But it was more than that. Nathara used spells and sigils. She could not command the elements with her hands alone. She did not practice the ways of the Old Religion. Her magic was not immediate, and therefore nowhere near as dangerous as the Druids. 

“She tried to kill you!”

“It was combat, _Mer_ lin. I don’t expect you to understand.”

“I understand. It’s because her magic isn’t as powerful as the Old Religion.” Arthur’s eyes snapped back up to Merlin’s. He seemed on the brink of anger. “You can’t still believe that everyone who practices the Old Religion is evil.”

“Of _course_ , I don’t, _Mer_ lin!” Arthur defended, perhaps a tad too quickly. He waved his hand at Merlin in frustration. “You’re not evil.” 

“But I’m not the only one.”

“I’m sure you’re not, but—.”

Arthur paused to sigh. He hung his head, searching for the right words. It was a delicate topic between them, and perhaps they were both a little biased, though Arthur liked to think he’d overcome everything Uther had taught him. But one fact remained: he had to think about the kingdom. He had to think about what was best for the people, not for Merlin or for himself.

“We don’t know for sure if the Druids have an ulterior motive, or if an alliance with them will be stable.” He didn’t say so, but he knew the Druids could turn their back on them and ally with the Neos if they offered something better.

“They may have the best intentions in mind,” Arthur went on carefully. “I’m not saying they’re evil. But they have . . .” He gestured, trying to come up with the right word.

Merlin seemed to understand. He wasn’t fuming. Actually, he had gone eerily calm, which meant he was fuming on the inside.

“What? _Potential_ to be evil?” he asked. “So does everyone else.”

“Yes, but everyone else doesn’t possess the ability to kill a man with a wave of their hands,” Arthur countered. Power like that simply demanded to be wielded; and, in his experience, it was rarely used for good. 

Without a second’s hesitation, Merlin said, “No, they can just set off nuclear bombs and destroy the world.” No matter how deadpanned, there was a strength to his tone. And maybe a weariness.

Arthur lifted his chin reflexively, trying to recover from a particularly effective blow.

“You don’t have to live as long as I have to know the things people can do, magic or not. But you have to believe they’ll choose to do the right thing,” Merlin went on. He took a step forward, and then halted, not wanting to get too close.

“Arthur,” he said under his voice, and Arthur understood just how much this really meant to him. He collected his thoughts, and said, “You have to choose, too. You can fight against all magicians, not only the Neos. You can hold them under suspicion and make them your enemy—like your father did,” he bit down on those words. “Or, you can give them the chance to do good. You can treat them as you treat everyone else, as your equal, and give them a life free from hiding.”

Arthur couldn’t look at him full in the face anymore. He’d never known what it was like to live in hiding. Merlin did, all too well, and he didn’t want anyone else to be subjected to that. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps it was circumstance, such as injustice and suspicion, which bred evildoers like the Neo-Druids. 

“You could change that,” Merlin said, nearly begging now.

Gwen spoke up, “I believe he’s right, Arthur. I don’t think the Druids wish to do anything but help. We should offer them the same. Neither you nor I were able to undo Uther’s laws in Camelot. Maybe, now, we have the opportunity to do better.”

Arthur’s eyes moved to Gaius. He was aware of Merlin staring on him, unyielding and without blinking. The gaze bore into him, making his skin buzz under the pressure. 

“You feel the same?” he asked Gaius.

Gaius stood a little straighter and appeared to be weighing his options. When he spoke, he said simply, “I do, sire. Uther’s hatred of magic was fuelled by grief and his own regret. I do not wish to see you with regrets, Arthur.”

Arthur nodded and looked back down at his desk. He balled his fist onto the top. He couldn’t look back up knowing he’d catch Merlin’s eyes. He had to think. He had to think _hard_. 

“Know I’ve heard everything you’ve said,” he told them, “but I have to consider this matter for myself. Leave me.” 

Gwen and Gaius turned immediately and started for the door. Merlin remained for a few beats, and for a heart-pounding moment Arthur was sure he wasn’t going to move until he got an answer. However, the weight of his stare soon fell away, and he followed the others out of the study. He closed the door behind him—so softly, as though not to disturb the thoughts rolling around Arthur’s mind.

 

///

 

That night, Arthur gathered around the Round Table with Sonia and her councillors. It was the first official act of state that would be conducted at the table, and Arthur didn’t know if it was ironic or fitting that the matter should concern Druids. Either way, the outcome of this meeting would set precedent for what the table came to symbolize.

It was meant to be a thing of equality and peace, where dignitaries could come together and sort out their grievances with discussion, not the edge of a sword or the barrel of a gun. Too often had Arthur’s Round Table in Camelot served as a meeting place for war. Though it would be the same for this one at present, he hoped to begin this current table’s tenure with something positive.

And yet, he heard Uther’s voice nagging at him, scolding him for even letting these Druids into his hall. 

Gwen and Gaius believed the Druids were genuine in their search for an alliance. That may have been so for this tribe, but it invited the possibility of other Druid tribes seeking false friendship. How many other tribes were there, Arthur wondered? Why hadn’t they come in search of peace? Morgana must have known about them. Mordred himself had been a Druid, and their army bore the same namesake. It was possible there were dozens of tribes already on Morgana’s side, or at least sympathetic towards her.

In the old days, Gaius claimed the Druids were peaceful people. However, that wasn’t always true. Many of them joined Morgana’s army. Many of them sought to destroy Camelot and see Morgana on the throne. The same would be true of Winchester, he was certain.

Or was it Uther who that was certain?

The past and Uther’s influence aside, there was also the matter of the anti-magic sentiment still prevalent in the provinces. While it was true, people were generally more accepting in the cities, the smaller towns were suspicious, especially those bordering the Neo Territory. Half the citizens of Britain would praise Arthur for extending his hand in peace; the other half would condemn him.

Furthermore, magic was still outlawed in Exeter, and the Chancellor would become even more of an adversary to Arthur if he knew of Arthur’s meeting with the Druids. Brown would petition the other committee members against any sort of peace with magicians.

And yet, there were benefits to having Druids on their side. For one, it could level the playing field with the Neos. The Druids practiced the Old Religion, whereas the majority of Morgana’s army did not. Their magic was purer, and that could help if they joined the fight. _If_ they joined the fight. Arthur was unsure if these Druids were militaristic, or at least willing, or if they were peaceful as Gaius claimed. 

And there was the weight on Arthur’s conscious. Under his father’s rule, he’d slaughtered so many innocents of their kind. He was merciless against them. He tried his best to leave them alone as king, to punish those only when they used magic for a crime, but he did nothing to improve their lives. He’d been completely passive towards the Druids in his lands. They counted as citizens of his kingdom, the people he was sworn to serve and protect. And what did he do? He ignored them wherever possible, despite their faith and prophecies of him. He did not deserve a shred of their fidelity. But, to be fair, at the time, he didn’t know he had it.

But now? He was not ignorant to the Druid’s faith in him now, and could no longer use it as an excuse, as lame as it was considering none of his other citizens needed to pledge their loyalty to him. Would he fight for them with that knowledge? He supposed he’d find out as the meeting progressed.

He looked at Merlin, seeming out of place simply because of the way he appeared as if his seat would set on fire at any moment, sitting on his right side. Merlin hadn’t said a word all evening. Arthur couldn’t tell if Merlin was angry with him or just disappointed. Or perhaps Merlin was still making up his own mind about the Druids. Merlin was beyond hopeful, yes, but Arthur also knew he was still somewhat wary. When it came to Arthur, Merlin was wary about everything and everyone. It was both a blessing and curse, one that could make them enemies if Arthur wasn’t careful. But that was Merlin. He hadn’t the training of the court; he didn’t realise some people’s underhandedness was simply politics.

But he would learn. One day, he would feel comfortable in his seat around the table. Arthur would show him that he deserved to be consort—somehow.

When everyone was settled, Arthur directed at Sonia, who sat directly across from him, “Allow me to begin by thanking you for your people’s hospitality today. My council has told me they had a productive day at your camp. I hope to see it myself in the near future.” He gestured to Gwen and Gaius on his left, earning them a gracious nod from Sonia.

“I should be the one thanking you,” Sonia said. “Your donations were generous. And my people enjoyed the chance to meet Emrys.”

Merlin sunk into his seat as though it would make him invisible. Arthur overlooked it. 

“Well, I couldn’t stand by and let my guests freeze out in the forest. The invitation into the city stands.” 

“I know,” said Sonia. “But I think it’s best to decide where _we_ stand first.”

At last, Arthur could discern for himself what the Druid’s motives were. It was all well and good to mingle with the people, but they didn’t know the agendas of their leaders. It was here they would find out the truth.

Gwen inquired, “You’ve come for sanctuary from the Neos, just like so many others have. Is that not what we’ve extended?”

Sonia answered, “It is not just hospitality we’re looking for. Sanctuary is not the same as shelter and safety, and the Druids’ need for it did not begin during the War. The oppression of my people goes back thousands of years, as you well know.”

“So, it’s freedom you seek?”

“It is equality,” said the man to Sonia’s left. He’d been introduced to Arthur earlier as Matthew. “Some of our brothers and sisters wish only for the Druids to be left alone, separate from the rest of the world. We don’t share that view. We think it’s time we joined the world, but it’s clear society as a whole doesn’t feel the same.”

“And you think I can change their minds?” Arthur said. It wasn’t much of a question. It was mostly incredulity and doubt. 

However, the Druids before him didn’t appear to share that doubt. “We believe you can set an example.”

“People follow you naturally,” Sonia explained. “They love you. To some, you’re a celebrity. To others, you’re a messiah.”

Arthur raised a curious brow. “And to you?”

There was a pause before Sonia responded: “You’re someone who has shown us the kindness I hoped you would.”

“Your people see us as fairytales,” Gwen said, shaking her head gently so that her curls bounced. “No real person should be held to such fantastical standards." 

“They know the legends, yes, but they also know what you’ve done in our time. Those aren’t fairytales, are they?” 

Gwen pressed her lips together and surveyed the woman across from them, but said nothing. Arthur wondered what she was thinking. 

He couldn’t glean Gwen’s thoughts, but he could voice his own. “What of the Druids who don’t share your vision of peace? Certainly there are those whose beliefs align with Morgana’s.” 

Sonia looked at the councillors on either side, a silent conversation passing between them. Arthur wondered if it truly was just glances, or if they were psychically communicating. He looked at Merlin out of the corners of his eyes, but Merlin hadn’t reacted. He merely watched the proceedings with concentration and curiosity.

“We’ve heard of some northern tribes joining her army,” Sonia revealed at last. “Others have been forced to join against their own will. You must understand, they don’t wish to go back to the old ways. They know how people treat magicians. Britain’s fear of our kind has made them fearful in return. It’s a dangerous thing.” 

Arthur knew it. Fear was the root cause of all war and animosity, of all hate. It was a cycle that never ended, one he had never tried to break because he thought it impossible. But that was not the sentiment of a leader. What true king allowed fear to be his master? 

“Has fear of Morgana driven you to Winchester?”

She shook her head, although he knew that must have been part of the reason. “It’s hope in you.”

Arthur sat back as he let that wash over him. He wasn’t sure how to believe her. He wanted to, but his stomach squirmed in a warning of trickery. He folded his fist before his mouth and leaned into it in thought.

“We’ve told you, we want to join the world, not hide from it,” she continued. “We will fight for that right, and for peace, if need be.” 

So, maybe they were militaristic. Or willing.

Arthur narrowed his eyes. “There are some on my committee who would be against an alliance between Britain and the Druids.”

“You mean, Chancellor Brown of the Exeter Republic,” Sonia answered pointedly. “I know of his reservations, and I know he wishes to send magicians back to the death camps. You won’t allow him to.” 

Arthur sat up a little straighter, his face a mask of perplexity. “How do you know that?”

“I was there the night of the ballet. I was the one who told you about his daughter.”

Arthur thought back to that night, of the woman in the cave that came to him in a vision. Sonia had helped Arthur complete his committee. Even if he loathed Brown, the Chancellor was a necessary member of the Round Table. Without Sonia’s help, Arthur would have never convinced him to join their efforts.

“That was you?” he asked, breathless.

She inclined her head gently. Arthur could not tell if it was a nod or a bow.

“I was pleased to see you fight for magicians on that night. It gave me faith that you would help us. Perhaps we don’t have to begin with all of Britain and all of the Druids coming together,” Sonia offered. “Let’s start with us—Winchester and my tribe. Let’s be an example to the rest.”

Arthur looked at Merlin, who was worrying on his lower lip. He turned to Gwen and Gaius. Both seemed intrigued, but still hesitant.

“Sire, I believe this is a good idea,” Gaius considered. “It could open up a discussion between the other provinces and Druid tribes in the future.”

The future. So, he thought it best not to bring talk of this alliance to the committee just yet. Even if the committee voted to align Britain with this tribe, Sonia couldn’t promise the same for all Druids. As far as Arthur knew, the tribes were disjointed. 

“Sonia is right. Others may follow our example.”

Gwen seemed to agree, but still something in her resisted, even if she did trust this particular tribe. Arthur understood her reservations: These Druids turned up on their doorstep mere hours ago. Before last night, they didn’t even know they still existed. They were strangers, without even a reputation to uphold them. Arthur didn’t like the taste of that, and it soured Gwen’s mouth, too, simply because neither of them had enough time to think about their next move. Just because she had made her peace with the Durham Druids did not mean she held the same judgment for all tribes, and one alliance could lead to a snowball effect.

Arthur made his decision. There could be no official alliance, not until he knew Sonia and her people better and a trust built between them. But he would not turn them away.

Turning back to the Druids, he said, “This is the first of many talks, which I hope will prove fruitful. In the meantime, I welcome your people in friendship, and I will continue to extend all the hospitality Winchester has to offer.”

_Friendship. Hospitality._

Not _alliance_. Not yet.

Sonia inclined her head gratefully. “Thank you, King Arthur. It is all we could ask for right now.”

When the meeting concluded, Sonia and her councillors filed out of the Great Hall. Gaius and Merlin followed, speaking in low voices. Arthur’s shoulders dropped in a sigh as he watched them. Perhaps Gaius would be able to discern whatever thoughts Merlin was harbouring. Or perhaps Merlin would just tell him outright. Merlin always had trusted Gaius more than he did Arthur. 

He strolled out with Gwen. “Thank you for your help,” he told her. 

“Don’t thank me. I didn’t do much. But I believe you did the right thing. This gives us time to think.”

Arthur let out a heavy exhale again and nodded his chin towards Merlin and Gaius, who were already halfway across of the courtyard. “I just wish I knew what he was thinking. He’s barely spoken since you got back from the camp.” 

“He has given his insight on the matter,” Gwen said.

“But he removed himself from the discussion tonight! He’s supposed to be the Great Emrys, isn’t he? You’d _think_ he’d be all over this. How can I expect him to give his opinion as consort if he can’t even include himself in talks with Druids?”

When they were outside the door, the steward standing guard closed it and locked it. Gwen paused, half-glanced at the steward, and then pulled Arthur to the side. Only then did Arthur realise how cold the night was. It smelt like snow on the air. Or perhaps he was so cold because the severity of Gwen’s look. 

“I know you want his opinion, Arthur, but maybe he doesn’t know that,” she advised, her breath fogging between them.

He scoffed like it was the most ridiculous thing in the world. “Of course, he does!”

She didn’t let him finish. Her words overlapped as she shot back, “Does he? How can you expect him to act like your consort when you hardly treat him like your husband?”

It wounded Arthur. He knew it couldn’t be easy to be married to him. (Gwen knew it, too.) But he did his best, and he hoped Merlin knew Arthur loved him, even if he didn’t always know how to show it.

“I do,” he said meekly.

Sympathetic, Gwen’s expression slackened and her voice became softer. She touched Arthur’s arm in comfort. “You know how he is. All his life, his head has been filled with the same stories told to those Druids. Those can’t be easy thoughts to get rid of.”

Arthur ground his teeth. He hated that damn dragon.

“Merlin may not see himself as consort yet, but only you can make him understand that you are still his husband. It isn’t something well known, after all.”

Arthur had never been comfortable proclaiming his personal business to the world, and he knew Merlin wasn’t, either. Still, Gwen was right, as usual. Merlin required some kind of reassurance that he was needed, and not just because some ancient prophecy told him to wait by a lake for thousands of years. 

“You don’t even wear rings,” Gwen said.

“We did,” Arthur told her lamely.

“Well? Maybe it’s time you did again.”

No. Those old rings weren’t a good enough gesture. Merlin deserved something better. Arthur needed him to know that he wanted Merlin’s opinion and guidance, and his love. That he wanted Merlin, and no one else.

An idea struck him suddenly, but he wouldn’t be able to do it alone. He needed someone who was good at this kind of thing. 

His eyes lit up as he met Gwen’s. “Can you help me with something?”


	9. Chapter 9

A sudden crash from downstairs woke Arthur from sleep. He jumped up, on high alert. From the foot of the bed, Archie meowed angrily and jumped to the floor. Arthur listened out in the darkness as the clattering continued. His hands itched towards his sword, thinking it an intruder, before consciousness caught up to him and he realised what it was. 

Next to him, Merlin rolled onto his stomach and shoved his nose further into his pillow. “’s your turn,” he grumbled.

Arthur glared at his dark outline before the bright red numbers on the clock attracted his eyes. _3:04_ pierced through the shadows. Arthur grumbled but got out bed, rubbing the heels of his palms in his eyes.

It _was_ his turn, after all.

He trudged downstairs, following the sound of the clattering, until he reached the scullery outside the kitchen. Inside, Dagnija, filling the room so it looked as tiny as a doll’s house, was jumping from one cupboard to the next, pulling out cans and jars with her snout and ripping them open with her talons. Everything she didn’t like was pushed to the tiles, where a mess of shattered glass, aluminium, liquids, and solids lay.

Two manor guards were in the scullery’s threshold trying to stop her. However, every time one of them stepped close with raised palms, she squawked or roared, and they jumped back in terror. As Arthur entered, one guard drew his firearm at the dragon in precaution.

Before it so much as levelled, Arthur grabbed it by the barrel and jerked the man’s arm back down. The guard looked at him with panicked eyes, and Arthur met his stare with fury. 

“Go,” he warned them both, releasing the man. “Get back to your posts.”

They scurried out of the room.

Arthur turned his attention to the dragon, whose nose was shoved into a box of cereal. She had gotten so big so quickly. Her girth barely fit on the counter anymore, and her head was only a foot or so beneath the ceiling. Her tail touched the floor and curled in on itself twice.

This was the third time that week alone she’d made a ruckus in the manor at night.

“Dag,” Arthur said, catching her attention. She looked up from the cereal box, some ripped cardboard caught on her tusk, and sniffed the air. Then, she chirped excitedly and beat her wings a few times in greeting. The wind it produced nearly caused Arthur to backpedal, and some more items on the counter toppled to the floor. 

“Alright,” he said wearily when she settled. He was too exhausted to scold her, not that it would work. He went to the door on the other side of the room, unlocked it, and opened it to the January night. The bitter chill of the air instantly numbed him. Luckily, Dagnija had thicker skin, and she tended to run hot, after all. “Go on. Go find something to eat.”

There was a whoosh as she leapt off the counter and ran past him on all fours, just managing to squeeze through the door. Once outside, he watched her shadow shoot upward and then dive again to disappear into the tree line. She’d be back by morning, as always.

He closed the door and made his way back upstairs, rubbing his hands together to get the warmth back into them.

He slipped back into bed, where he thought Merlin was already sound asleep until he heard a muffled, “She’s hunting?”

Arthur sighed, still sitting up on the mattress. “Yes.” He stared at Merlin, knowing what he wanted to say next was delicate. Still, it had to be said: “She’s getting too big to keep inside, Merlin. She’ll only get bigger.”

Merlin’s eyes opened, but he didn’t say anything.

“It’s not fair to her. She belongs in the wild.”

“I know,” Merlin said, sounding a little more awake, and a little more tired. “She belongs with us, too.”

Arthur knew Merlin was protective of Dagnija. There was a reason for it. A reason he never talked about. Arthur often wondered what had happened to Aithusa that had hurt Merlin so badly.

“Of course, she does,” Arthur agreed, “and she won’t ever be far away. But she can take care of herself. She prefers the forest, anyway.”

Merlin remained silent, looking as though he’d fallen asleep with his eyes open. He didn’t even blink; he merely stared and hugged his pillow. 

“Merlin,” Arthur urged.

“I _know_ ,” Merlin answered again shortly. He let out a deep breath and let his anger dwindle. “You’re right. She should be among the other creatures of magic.”

Arthur was relieved to hear it. They could have a night uninterrupted, and the cleaning staff wouldn’t have to wake up to a mess of various shambles. And Dagnija would be happier where she’d have room to grow. 

He wondered if Merlin would be happy, too.

“Will you tell me one day what happened?” Arthur had skimmed Merlin’s journals for what had happened to Aithusa. As far as he could tell, there wasn’t even a single mention of her. 

Again, Merlin remained eerily still. And then, “She died.”

There was more to the story, but Arthur decided not to push. There was nothing he could do about the past. “Dag won’t,” he promised. Merlin had been doing a good job with her. Arthur hoped he saw that. 

He laid down on his side and watched the moonlight through the curtain. Once, he thought he saw a large shadow streak past it, but perhaps his tired eyes were only playing tricks on him.

Merlin’s arm pushed in beneath his elbow to wrap around Arthur’s torso. His chest snuggled against Arthur’s spine. Arthur breathed against him. He resituated his arm on top of Merlin’s, and took Merlin’s hand in his.

Hissing, Merlin said sleepily, “You’re freezing.”

“You’ll warm me up.”

Merlin pressed his forehead against Arthur’s shoulder and didn’t move until they were both asleep.

 

///

 

Hours ago, a flash of light had filled the sky over Shrewsbury like an electric storm. It struck down a population of sixty-eight thousand in a radius of sixteen kilometres from the town centre. Arthur’s troops defending the area, at least three hundred soldiers, were at the epicentre of the blast. They all burned from the inside, not a single one left to take captive.

The Neo army searched the city, looking for any civilians that may have survived. It appeared only magicians were left. The news pleased Morgana upon Mordred’s report.

“That’s wonderful!” Morgause declared, her eyes wild with exuberance. She embraced Morgana, who was laughing with relief at the battle won, and when the hug broke, continued, “This has been the most effective blast we’ve had yet.”

“More than effective,” Mordred said, stepping in closer. A smile had claimed his face as he watched Morgana’s eyes sparkle. Never did he believe in her more than that moment. “There wasn’t a single non-magical survivor, Morgana, soldier or citizen. If the weapon grows any stronger, securing Winchester will be easy.” 

Morgana swayed at the prospect. Finally, the throne would be hers. After centuries, Camelot would have its true queen.

“We must be absolutely certain the weapon will cover a city as populated as Winchester before we move forward,” she said, considering the implications. There could be no room for error. It was unlikely they’d get a second chance at the city if they failed.

“May I make a suggestion?” Morgause said, and Mordred’s blood already curled. There was no doubt, whatever Morgause was about to suggest, many people would perish. There was a time when that may have bothered him more than it did now. Now, he didn’t care who had to die, so long as Arthur and Merlin went with them. Still, whatever the case, Morgause’s influence over Morgana was strong; and, in his opinion, nothing good ever came from her suggestions. 

“If we’re to know that our weapon can take on Winchester’s population, we must first test it on a city even more populated.”

“London,” Mordred realised, following Morgause’s thought.

Morgause’s piercing eyes latched onto him, and she nodded once slowly. “Indeed.”

“London,” Morgana said, mulling the plan over. No doubt, London would be a feat. It would require much strategy. They city was a secure one, especially since the formation of the committee. Half the army was stationed in London alone.

However, it would not be impossible.

The Neos had their own soldiers stationed in the city, after all.

Morgana looked at Mordred. “Can your lieutenants draw up a stratagem?”

The corners of Mordred’s lips flickered, and he bowed low. “I’ll ride ahead to York immediately. The war council will be ready to convene when you arrive.”

Morgana nodded sternly, but her lips twitched to give away her elevated heart rate. “Go.”

Mordred bowed again and turned from the room.

 

///

 

“Merlin, get your feet off of there!” Gaius scolded, and swatted at Merlin’s boots, which were currently propped up on Gaius’ desk in his hospital study. He was supposed to be helping Gaius find a more permanent solution to the abundance of magic in the world, but instead got distracted by a book about the so-called “magician’s gene.” It explained why some possessed the ability to practice magic, chalking it up to something in their DNA. From what Merlin knew about it, it was only a theory without enough evidence to back it up.

Still, it was an interesting concept. His magic was a part of him. He was born with it, just as he had been born with the sense of sight and touch. But was there a physiological reason for it? It had been debated much in the years before the War, but never proven.

“Sorry,” Merlin said, straightening out and putting his feet on the ground.

But Gaius wasn’t satisfied. “You’re meant to be helping me; not reading things with no relevance!” However, he peered over Merlin’s shoulder, ever curious. He always had loved when Merlin showed interested in one of his books. “What are you reading anyway?” 

“Just a theory. It was popular back in the eighties. It says magic might be genetic.” 

Gaius raised a brow. “It may also be—what was that word, my boy? Propaganda. Think of the time when that book was written.”

“Oh, it was _definitely_ propaganda.” People had used the theory to support their claim that magicians were another species, not quite human, and thus shouldn’t be treated as such. “But I wondered if they were on to something. What do you think?” He’d directed his question at the man suddenly standing behind Gaius along the wall. Balinor.

Gaius spun around in shock, and clutched his heart in relief when he realised to whom Merlin was speaking.

Merlin only quirked a soft smirk before continuing, “You passed your magic down to me. Is it a biological thing?”

“I do not know if there is any science behind it, Merlin,” said Balinor without even considering a proper answer. “I will leave such questions up to Gaius.”

“Well, I see the inability to lend me a hand is certainly genetic,” Gaius said.

“Is there a reason you’ve called me here, son?” 

There wasn’t. Not really. In fact, everything had been going well as late. Such idleness was something Merlin had never been accustomed to, and it was welcome, save for the fact that he saw very little of his father or Freya anymore. He missed them. He hadn’t seen Kilgharrah in a while, either, but he guiltily had no desire to speak with the dragon, not after their last conversation.

“Can’t I say hi? Mum used to get mad that I didn’t write her enough,” Merlin joked.

Balinor looked humoured. There was a twinkle in his eyes that Merlin often imagined when he was a child. It wasn’t a memory; it couldn’t have been. It was only his imagination, longing for a father he never had, longing for acceptance. No one in Ealdor had ever accepted him. 

Gaius huffed and snatched the book from Merlin’s hands, bringing him back into reality. “If you aren’t going to help, take this conversation somewhere else, you knucklehead.” 

Merlin laughed. It was late, anyway. Arthur would be back from training by then. “Fine. I’m leaving.”

“I suppose I should, too, and get another crack at all this in the morning. I’ll walk with you.” 

As Merlin followed Gaius out of the room, he waved to Balinor. “Goodnight, Father.” Balinor responded only by disappearing, and Gaius locked the door behind them. 

The hospital had come along nicely in last year. In the beginning, Gaius had worried the hospital wouldn’t attract doctors and nurses, but they came as the city continued to grow. The biggest concern now was medicine and machinery, all of which had been in short supply for years. But Merlin was optimistic they could focus on such things once Morgana was defeated. Perhaps, one day, things could even go back to the way they were before the War. 

They said quick goodnights to the members of staff they passed until they reached the street outside, where Merlin’s motorbike was parked right outside the doors. Recently, it seemed more and more vehicles were coming into the city, but there were perks to magic: with it, there was always optimal parking. 

“You’re headed back to the Summer Palace?” Gaius questioned, tightening his coat around him against the brisk winter winds.

Merlin rolled his eyes at the name. Recently, the people of Winchester had taken to calling the manor by that title. It had started when some journalist trying to be a poet published the words in one of London’s newspapers. Arthur didn’t mind it, coming from the school of thought that dictated every government residence needed an honourable name. That would have been all well and good if Merlin weren’t so prone to calling it home. 

“Yeah,” he said, knowing it wasn’t worth the argument to speak his mind about the title. There were more important battles to be won. He swung his leg to the other side of the motorcycle and simultaneously fastened his helmet on his head, visor up. He revved the engine once. 

Gaius stood on the pavement looking at the chrome cylinders like they were a problem he had to solve—a problem that never should have come up in the first place. He used to glower at the blotchy sketches of creatures of magic in his books with the same expression, Merlin recalled. 

“Must you take this thing?” Gaius asked warily, shaking his head at the wheels. His flat was only a block from the hospital, and he always preferred walking to riding, even when Merlin took the Golf. “With such great speeds, it can’t be safe, especially in the cold.”

“You’re right. It could kill me,” Merlin answered dryly.

Gaius’ eyebrow disapproved.

“That isn’t funny, Merlin.”

Merlin grinned, showing how funny _he’d_ thought it was. “Goodnight, Gaius,” he said before Gaius could protest any further. And then, Gaius became tinted in grey after Merlin had flicked down his visor.

“Goodnight, my boy.”

Merlin balanced himself on the bike and shot off down the street in a roar of horsepower.

He rode back home, and the manor was strangely empty when Merlin entered. It was too early for the staff to have turned in for bed, and Merlin wondered if Arthur decided to give them the night off. He snorted a laugh.

He almost called out for Arthur when he heard voices coming from down the hall. Merlin couldn’t hear the words, but the murmured speech pattern sounded like Arthur’s. The sound of the voices bounced off the walls as Merlin paced down the hall towards Arthur’s study.

He was grinning before he entered the room, ready to tease Arthur for being so generous with handing out days off to the house staff when he never gave Merlin a single moment to himself when he was his servant. However, when he reached the opened door, what he saw stopped him in his tracks like he’d rammed into an invisible wall. It knocked the air out of him. 

It was Arthur and Gwen. They were standing too close together in front of the desk. Arthur was holding a velvet ring box between them. The scene was exactly how Merlin had seen it in his vision, and for a moment he thought he was dreaming again.

It wasn’t a dream. He was awake. As though to prove it, his heart began to hammer. When Gwen gasped, Merlin’s breath forced its way inside, too. 

“Oh, Arthur. Yes! Yes, I do!” she exclaimed, tone buzzing with excitement.

The tension in Arthur’s shoulders immediately slackened, and the corners of his lips turned up in a grin.

He thought he’d be sick. His gut sloshed and burning pressure forced its way up his throat. He couldn’t bear to watch the rest. 

And then he heard Arthur say, as if doubting himself, “You do? You really think Merlin will like them?” 

“Yes, of course!”

Merlin blinked in surprise, suddenly not so numb. His mind lagged for a second before recognising his own name. Quickly, he pressed himself against the door to remain unseen. He peeked carefully around the wood and strained his hearing to eavesdrop.

Arthur’s eyes had fallen back to the ring box, and he appeared pained. “I don’t,” he complained, slumping. He snapped the box shut. “This was a stupid idea. I should have asked him first. Merlin’s never wanted anything extravagant, no matter how much I wish to provide it.” 

“Arthur,” Gwen reproved sympathetically. “Don’t say such things! He will love them.”

Merlin knew her words didn’t comfort Arthur. He was still miserable. “How do you know?”

She smiled gently, happily. “Because they came from you. I know how much effort you put into these. He will realise that. I know he will love them because he loves _you_.”

Arthur settled a little, his confidence boosted slightly at the reminder, but he remained hesitant. “You don’t think they’re too much?”

Gwen scoffed in an exaggerated way. “Arthur. When I agreed to help you with them, it was never my intention to sabotage your marriage.”

“I never said—!”

“I did it because you know nothing about jewellery and I pitied you for it." 

Merlin bit the inside of his cheek to stifle a laugh. He didn’t know when it happened, but he was suddenly aware of the fluttering in his chest. Relief wasn’t a big enough word to describe what he was feeling. He felt drunk quite suddenly. 

God, he really was and idiot. A dumb, old idiot. He should have trusted them more.

Arthur took in a breath to argue, but then he stopped, noticing the look on Gwen’s face. He huffed out a laugh and relaxed. “Alright. Thank you, Guinevere. I just hope he shares your in your good taste.” 

She nodded as he carefully placed the box into his pocket. “When are you going to ask him?” 

Merlin’s attention snapped back to the scene before him, away from the lightness in his heart.

“I haven’t decided yet,” Arthur told her. “But he’ll say yes. He has to.” 

Some anxiety flooded back into Merlin’s system, telling him to flee. He knew what Arthur wanted to ask him. It was the same thing he’d been asking for months now. Only, this time, he wanted to make it official.

Merlin heard Kilgharrah’s voice in his head. He remembered Arthur’s body lying dead on that rooftop somewhere in the future that could never come to pass.

“I need him to,” Arthur went on, his voice quieter, and it nearly broke Merlin’s heart.

How could he say no?

He knew how much Arthur wanted him to be consort. If he didn’t, he feared Arthur would never forgive him. His reluctance would drive a wedge between them. Merlin would ruin them. And Merlin would lose him again.

How could he let that happen? 

“Good luck,” Gwen told him, touching his arm in a show of support. Then, she grabbed her coat from behind the chair and slipped into it. 

“Okay,” Arthur said, steeling himself like a solider going into battle. “Where is that idiot?”

His eyes flashed to the door, and Merlin ducked out of view right in the nick of time. He couldn’t let his presence be known just yet. He had to think about what to do, but every option felt like the wrong answer. 

He needed to avoid the situation entirely for the time being.

Silently, he moved away from the door and headed upstairs.

 

///

 

He’d waited up another hour, drumming his fingers on his desk, for Merlin to get home. Before him were notes on the latest draft for the committee’s charter, which would lay out the foundation for their country’s new government. He pretended to read it, but really his eyes were half on the doorway. But it had gotten late, and there was still no sign of Merlin. Arthur sighed, knowing that Gaius would probably have Merlin up all night reading books, so it was no use keeping his eyes on the doorway and hoping for Merlin to return.

He leaned back in his chair, feeling the ring box shift in his pocket. He fished it out and opened the latch, peering inside.

The pieces were twins, but not entirely identical. Both were gold circles with five, small gems dotted around them. The gems on one were bright red rubies, which would be Arthur’s; the other ring was speckled in sapphires, for Merlin. They were the same rings Merlin and Arthur had given to each other on their wedding, only with an upgrade. Arthur had them sent to Exeter weeks ago, and they were finally delivered. 

It eased his mind that Gwen was happy with how they turned out. Her opinion meant the world to him, especially about things of this nature. As she’d reminded him, he hadn’t a single clue about jewellery, so his own opinion meant little to nothing. Gwen said Merlin would love the rings. She was probably right. After all, she usually was.

He shouldn’t have been worried. Gwen had been with him every step of the way with this. In fact, she’d been the one to design them. He did very little, and was glad to have her artistic eye.

However, he _was_ worried.

All of this had seemed like such a good idea at the time, but now Arthur doubted himself. Would Merlin hate them? Maybe he should have just left them alone. But they had been so plain and simple before. It was all they could afford at the time of their wedding, and Arthur had silently vowed to himself that one day he’d correct that issue. Merlin deserved better—especially after Arthur had made them take their rings off. 

Arthur should have never allowed either of them to hide the rings away in the first place. It seemed like such a silly thing to do now.

He wanted to make it up to Merlin by improving upon them before putting them on again. But he hadn’t considered how sentimental Merlin tended to be. He would probably see it as a loss rather than a gain. 

Redesigning them had probably been a terrible idea. But it was too late now.

He resolved to present them to Merlin in a quiet moment—nothing too showy or extravagant, lest Merlin would probably panic and reject them. That wouldn’t be all he’d reject. 

Arthur placed the opened box on his desk and stared hard at the rings, as if they would help him phrase exactly how he was going to ask Merlin to be consort. Any sting of words Arthur could come up with was bound to scare him off, and the stress of it was almost enough for him to lose his nerve.

Maybe he should just leave things as they were. After all, he and Merlin were happy together, even if Merlin sometimes allowed that dragon to fill his head with nonsense. It never lasted long, anyway. Arthur supposed he should be grateful for that. Merlin could have left him long ago—or, going further back, he could have given up waiting for Arthur to return from Avalon in the first place and gotten on with his life.

Arthur still couldn’t fathom why he didn’t. Surely, he wasn’t worth all that wasted time and energy. 

But Merlin _had_ stayed, and Arthur was grateful, even if he had a hard time showing it. He hoped the rings would prove to Merlin that Arthur, too, would stay. He hoped asking him to be consort would show that Arthur needed him. Because he did. Never mind the kingdom, Arthur couldn’t handle his own every day existence without Merlin at his side. 

He picked up the box again, idly snapping it closed and opening it again and again as the best and worst case scenarios for Merlin’s response battled for dominance in his imagination.

He couldn’t dwell on this. He rattled his head, forcing himself to be brave, doing his best to convince himself that Merlin wouldn’t let him down. He hadn’t yet, after all.

He’d ask Merlin the next time he saw him. He wouldn’t give his bravado the chance to dwindle.

Putting the box back in his pocket, he stood up and left his study. It was no use being in there, anyway, as he wasn’t actually getting any work done. He hoped Merlin and Gaius were making better progress as he climbed the stairs. Squeezing his eyes shut in a yawn, he walked into his bedroom.

However, when his eyes opened again, he saw a figure standing at the window. His first instinct was to reach for his sword, until his vision adjusted and he realised who it was. 

“ _Mer_ lin!” he scolded, willing his heart rate to slow. Merlin didn’t react. He was staring out the window, down at the forest, with his arms crossed over his chest. “When on earth did you get home? I didn’t hear you get in.”

“Sorry,” Merlin said, his voice flat. “I didn’t know you were waiting up. You looked busy.”

Arthur paced across the room to where he was standing and leaned against the wall on the opposite side of the window. “Never enough for you.”

Merlin raised a brow, humoured, as if to say, _yeah right_.

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Alright, fine. But you could have popped your head in.” He followed Merlin’s line of vision out the window, wondering what had caught his attention. As far as he could tell, everything was calm.

Everything but for the hurricane brewing in his gut. The ring box suddenly felt like a weight. He’d promised himself he’d ask Merlin right away, but he didn’t know that time would come so soon.

But it was better to do it now, he thought, no matter how his palms had begun to sweat. He crossed his arms, too, in an attempt to surreptitiously dry them against his sleeves. 

“Merlin,” he started, doing his best to keep his voice from wavering. God, he was acting like a child. There was nothing to be scared of. He’d faced armies, for god’s sake!

Merlin blinked at him, and swallowed, and Arthur’s anxiety doubled.

He cleared his throat, meaning to try again. But then Merlin’s fists were tangled in the front of his shirt, and he was being pulled into a bruising kiss. Arthur inhaled sharply at the sheer unexpectedness off it, and he suddenly couldn’t figure out what to do with his hands. They ended up on Merlin’s shoulders, and something in the back of Arthur’s brain told him that was the wrong place to put them; but the rest of him was focused on Merlin’s mouth moving against him, and it was like second nature to sigh into the kiss.

Merlin took advantage of Arthur’s attention by pressing his back against the wall and crowding into Arthur until they were flush against each other. He opened his mouth, licking his tongue along the seam of Arthur’s lips until they parted. 

Arthur’s hands had finally managed to catch up, and he found them carding through Merlin’s hair, smoothing out the curls and tangles. And Merlin’s hands were too quick to keep up with. They were on his back, and then his hips, and then sliding up and under his shirt to run along Arthur’s torso. Arthur shivered when Merlin’s thumb tripped on his nipple. 

Eventually, they pulled away for air, but Merlin stayed close as if he would dive back in at any second. Arthur panted, his lungs burning.

“What,” he asked when the cogs of his mind finally stuttering back to life, “exactly was that about?” 

Merlin grinned, his laughter coming out in hot puffs against Arthur’s skin. “I can’t be spontaneous?” 

Arthur barked out a laugh of his own. “You can be _very_ spontaneous.” But there was something Arthur had to ask him, and it was rather important. “I did want to have a conversation, though.”

Merlin leaned in and pecked his lips. “We can have it later.”

It was tempting. More than tempting. Arthur licked his lips and tried to reel himself in. “Merlin, I—.”

Merlin dipped his fingers down the front of Arthur’s jeans, and Arthur bit out yell.

“ _What_?” He slid his palm down lower.

“Merlin,” Arthur sighed, arching into his touch. 

“No, go on. What did you want to say to me?” 

He grinded the heel of his palm down harder, applying just enough pressure to make it impossible for Arthur to focus on anything else. Arthur’s eyes dipped down to Merlin’s mouth, pink and wet and a little bruised, and really, the question would still be there in the morning.

“Oh, shut up,” he said, and pulled Merlin back in. He wrapped his arms around Merlin, bringing him in close so there wasn’t any space between them again. Merlin groaned from somewhere deep in his throat, and his hands came up to clutch Arthur’s face, holding him there and curling his fingers around the bolt of his jaw.

He parted his lips, and Arthur instinctually opened up to him, slotting their tongues together and feeling the wet, sweet press of Merlin’s mouth. Arthur dragged his hands down Merlin’s side to come to rest on his waist. They rode the motion as Merlin pressed into him, grinding up against his groin and pinning him to the wall with his hips. 

Merlin leaned back slightly to raise Arthur’s shirt over his head. As the cotton lifted over his eyes, Arthur saw how flush Merlin’s cheeks were, how blown out his pupils had become so that only a rim of midnight blue encircled the deep black. And that was how Arthur liked Merlin best, in the time just before—before his eyes started flickering gold, before his brow crumpled and his face contorted with pleasure. Those were good, too, but there was something about this moment here. Because Merlin hadn’t lost himself yet, but he was just unguarded enough to abandon all pretence. He was in control, calculating, surprising Arthur with all the new touches and unexplored desires.

These moments were possibly the closest Arthur had ever gotten to knowing what thoughts spun in Merlin’s head.

And then Merlin’s hands were on him again, his ridiculously long fingers brushing up and down Arthur’s chest, their pads leaving red circles on his skin where they sunk into him.

Arthur reached between them and undid the fly of Merlin’s jeans, not bothering to pull them down before sliding his hand into them and wrapping it around Merlin’s cock. Merlin’s breath hitched at that, and his nails left half-moons on Arthur’s chest.

He dragged his fist up and down Merlin’s length a few times, until Merlin started to fill out in his hand, until Arthur could feel wetness when he passed his thumb over the tip. Merlin gave an experimental roll of his hips, and it encouraged Arthur to tighten his grip.

“Arthur,” Merlin breathed, leaning in tantalisingly close to Arthur’s face. He hovered there, lips parted and hot breath caressing Arthur’s cheeks, but never closed the gap. 

“Want you to take me to bed,” he said, and it was enough to make Arthur twitch with want. Then, he placed his hand over Arthur’s heart, and he said some foreign word in some ancient language older than god, and his eyes lit up like fire. And it was like that same fire ran through Arthur’s veins, spreading across his skin sending waves throughout him. He felt his muscles tighten against the sensation, and he heard a noise that he was pretty sure he was making. 

“I have you, Arthur,” Merlin said, his throat sounding tight. Arthur’s own throat was dry. “Come on. Come to bed.” Merlin had him by the wrist, and Arthur followed him. They landed in bed together, arms around each other and mouths pressed fervently together. 

Merlin tickled his fingers up Arthur’s back and shoulders, and Arthur could feel tiny sparks crackling in their wake. He fit himself between Merlin’s knees and moved against him until panting breaths were mixed with his name. Until impatience took over and they shed their clothes so wandering hands were met with only heated skin and Merlin’s sharp hips were pressing into his own.

Arthur mouthed at the base of his jaw and his Adam’s apple. He pressed his lips to Merlin’s collarbone. Merlin shifted beneath him so that Arthur could feel him hard against his inner thigh.

“What do you want?” he asked, carding his fingers through Arthur’s hair. His voice came out in something close to a whine, as if he already knew exactly what he wanted, and he wouldn’t settle for Arthur telling him anything else. “Arthur, what do you want to do? Say you wanna fuck. Arthur. Tell me you’re going to fuck me.”

Arthur’s brows shot up, made eager by the prospect. He dove for the nightstand and shuffled through the contents of the drawer before he found the bottle he was looking for. 

Merlin hummed, but it sounded more frustrated than satisfied.

He wet his hands, rubbing them together to warm the gel before grabbing Merlin by the hip with one to keep him in place. Merlin put his legs around Arthur, a breathless smile licking his lips as his eyes fluttered up and down Arthur’s face. 

Arthur kissed him, a quick peck to that smile, as he lifted Merlin up and reached behind him. Merlin shuddered at first, his body tightening in Arthur’s hands, when Arthur worked his fingers into him. But he eased into it soon enough, and his face went slack as he moaned into every movement. When Arthur quickened his pace, he started to circle his hips again, and gold began flickering in his irises.

“Arthur, I won’t—,” he eked out, “I won’t last.”

He felt the corner of his lips pull upward. He hadn’t realised that his gaze had been fixed on Merlin’s face. “So, don’t.”

Merlin’s throat clicked when he swallowed, and he shook his head adamantly. “No. No, Arthur—I want to—Arthur—with you.” His words were nearly incoherent now, and Arthur had half a mind to quicken his pace more and send Merlin over the edge.

But Merlin was the king consort—or at least, he would be. And the king consort would get what he wanted.

So, Arthur pulled out of him and sat back, allowing Merlin to catch his breath in deep puffs. And then Merlin pushed himself off the mattress and onto his knees. He shuffled into Arthur’s lap.

“I see that knee-walking is coming along nicely,” Arthur teased, unable to help himself, with a joke between them that had lasted the test of time.

Merlin laughed. He put his fingers under Arthur chin and lifted it up to kiss him, but not before saying, “Be quiet.”

He pressed down onto Arthur, sinking him in deep, and they moaned into each other until the kiss broke. Merlin moved slowly at first, driving Arthur just mad enough to bury his face into Merlin’s neck and clutch hard on his shoulder blades. 

But as he moved, his breath became more and more uneven, and the sounds he was making became more persistent. He slid against Arthur with more abandon then. Arthur moved his hands to anchor around Merlin’s shoulders, and brought him down further each time. He thrust upward to meet Merlin.

When he exhumed himself from the crook of Merlin’s neck, he looked up to catch his gaze. Merlin’s eyes were flashing in gold again. Arthur shivered as the pressure began building throughout him. Merlin was on the verge of spilling over, too. He grabbed Arthur by the back of the neck and tugged him into another hard kiss, and then they were both coming, swallowing each other’s groans and panting breaths.

And after, Merlin stayed in Arthur’s lap, wrapped around him, their foreheads pressed together and they breathed each other in. And Merlin was smiling. Arthur could hear it in the way the air tripped out of him. 

And Arthur almost blurted out the question right then and there, confident Merlin would say yes. He only got as far as saying, “ _Merlin_ ,” before Merlin pressed another kiss to his lips.

Merlin would say yes, he told himself. Merlin would say yes.

 

///

 

Something invisible had woken Merlin up with a start. It had rushed into him, sending spiking waves of pain through him like the rolling aftershock of an earthquake pulling tides in the ocean. The echo of the magic reaching him was strong, but he knew it was merely a phantom compared to what it had been at its core.

Immediately, he knew what it meant. Morgana had set off another bomb.

 

///

 

When news of Shrewsbury reached them, Simmons came to Winchester and an impromptu meeting was held in Arthur’s office in Guildhall. Gwen, Gaius, and Merlin were present. Although Nathara was still in the city training with the soldiers, and Sonia’s camp was not far, Arthur thought it best not to call them until he received a full report. And, if needed, the full committee would be called for the following day.

“Her weapon has gotten stronger than when we last saw it,” Gwen said when Simmons’ report concluded. “It won’t be long until she takes on the cities, not just the towns.” 

“I fear she may set her sights on Winchester, sire,” Gaius agreed.

Arthur nodded at the two of them standing to the right of his desk. His eyes flickered to Merlin, haunting the far wall. He’d been silent throughout the meeting, and barely glanced up from the floor. Something was wrong. As pleasantly surprising as the night before had been, Merlin wasn’t acting like himself. He barely spoke two sentences to Arthur all day, his gaze narrowly avoiding Arthur’s every time Arthur so much as glanced towards him. 

Arthur crossed his arms and shook Merlin from his thoughts. He had other matters to deal with at the moment, not concerning Merlin’s mood or the ring box burning a hole in Arthur’s jacket pocket as it waited for its moment. It didn’t seem the moment would come that day.

He focused on Simmons, standing across the desk from him. 

“We’ll deploy more troops to the areas surrounding Shrewsbury to engage Morgana’s soldiers. We’ll beat them back north,” he told her.

She shook her head and formed fists around the wooden back of the chair before her. “We can send all the troops we have. They’ll do no good if Morgana’s waiting with the bomb,” she said boldly. 

“We’ve been beating them well enough thus far,” Gwen reminded her. 

“Beating them in battles, yes, but I don’t see an end to this war in sight. Not if Morgana’s soldiers heal and come back stronger later. We can’t kill them. Injure them, yes. Some, we’ve even injured beyond repair, but with most of them, we can’t. Yet, they kill us easily. The only thing that can kill them is Arthur’s sword, and he can’t be in every battle.” 

“What do you propose?” Gaius asked in a way that suggested he knew exactly what Simmons was about to say. Arthur thought he did, too, and he didn’t disagree. In fact, he’d been thinking it for some time. 

Confirming his thoughts, Simmons said, “We need to make more weapons like it.”

“No!” 

All eyes snapped to Merlin, who looked panicked. However, it didn’t look like he was about to explain himself.

Thankfully, Gaius did. “Arthur’s sword is created of powerful magic, Prime Minister. It was forged in dragon’s fire, and was never meant for merely any soldier. There is a prophecy in the Old Religion warning against anyone but the king wielding the sword.” 

Gwen seemed to consider this, and agreed, “I don’t think it’s wise to create more, either. Arthur’s sword is one thing, but we cannot control hundreds or even thousands of its like. We wouldn’t want any number of these weapons to fall into the Neo’s hands.”

Arthur hadn’t thought of it that way. If the Neos got a hold of the swords, they’d be able to kill anything—not just Arthur’s troops, but the magical creatures, perhaps even Dagnija included. And Morgana would be able to kill Merlin. 

In the corner, Merlin seemed to settle. So, more magical swords were out of question, but they still needed a way to kill the Neos. It was high time they evened the playing field. Arthur thought of the army of Druids camping in his forest. They may have been able to contrive of such a weapon. But before he could voice the idea, Simmons spoke. 

“What if they weren’t swords?” she wondered. “We could make bullets, instead. A bullet is impermanent. It can only be used once, but can arguably do more damage than a sword.” She looked to Gaius for advice. “What does your Old Religion’s prophesies say about bullets?”

Gaius mulled it over. He seemed fascinated by Simmons’ ability to find a loophole. “I don’t believe it says anything.”

Arthur’s skin buzzed in excitement. He tried not to get too ahead of himself. After all, there was no promise such a thing could work. However, his hopes soared. He looked at Merlin. “Could Dagnija make such a thing?” 

Merlin nodded at his shoes. “In theory,” was all he offered.

Simmons slapped the back of the chair eagerly, incited by Merlin’s words. “Excellent! I’ll speak with Darby about creating a prototype.”

Arthur nodded. “Good. In the meantime, troops will be sent to Anglia to secure the border.”

Simmons appeared more content with this promise than she had been before. “Thank you, Arthur.”

“Dismissed.”

Simmons collected her things and started out of the room, speaking with Gwen about the nearly complete construction of the barracks as they left. Gaius filed out after them. 

Arthur sat down in his chair and looked down at the pile of papers at his desk. He couldn’t focus on any of it, not when he hadn’t yet heard Merlin’s troubles. He looked up to where Merlin had stood and began, “Merl—.”

Merlin wasn’t there. Arthur’s brows knitted together. He hadn’t even seen Merlin leave.

 

///

 

The field in the back of the manor stretched out far, dipping downwards in a distant hill, to meet the dense woods cocooning the estate on three sides. Morgana knew what creatures lived in those woods, but she did not fear them. They were her kin, after all, and soon they would be under her control. Just as soon as Emrys was.

She waited along the back wall of the manor until the door next to her swung open and Nathara popped her head out.

“The butler thinks I’m waiting in Arthur’s study for the king to return,” Nathara said, waving Morgana into the house. The scullery was empty but for themselves and the canned foods, and the manor beyond was silent. It was midday. The staff would be on break from their morning chores, and Arthur and Emrys were at a meeting, according to Nathara.

As Morgana took a cursory look around, Nathara continued, “I put a charm on the house to shield your presence from the warding enchantments, but it will not last long.”

It was good thinking, if not a bit pedantic. Morgana pushed a grin and turned towards Nathara. “There is no need to rush. I have my own enchantments to combat Emrys’ security. They will not break so easily as your sigils.”

Nathara ruffled slightly, but she thought better of her objection and bowed her head. “My queen.”

“The stairs are this way?” Morgana asked, gesturing a gloved hand to exit the scullery. Just because she _could_ linger didn’t mean she thought it wise. Arthur and Emrys would be back eventually, and Morgana had no intention of meeting them. Her stay in Winchester would be brief. Already, Morgause was waiting in the woods to transport her back to York.

However, Morgana had to fight the desire to remain. She wished to see what the city had become. Her city. This land was still Camelot, after all, and still rightfully hers. She was drawn towards it. It called to her, pleading with her to stay, to come home. 

Nevertheless, there would be time to explore and rebuild the city to her liking when she was its queen. For the present, she had to focus on ending Arthur’s reign. 

Nathara swept out of the scullery and led Morgana through the manor. When they found the master bedroom, Nathara immediately went towards the bathroom. “They may be in here.” 

Morgana stopped her. She had already found her target: a small bottle of pills on the right hand nightstand. She picked it up and rattled it. Full, just as Morgause had suspected. 

“It seems Emrys has been having difficulty sleeping to need a refill so soon,” Morgana taunted, turning her neck towards Nathara in the bathroom’s threshold. Something framed on the wall caught her eye. She crossed towards the coin, recognising it instantly. Arthur had shown it to her only once when they were children. It was the sigil of his mother’s house. She narrowed her eyes, wondering how such an ancient thing could end up in this new world.

“My queen?”

Morgana rattled her head. The coin was of no consequence. It was merely metal. Morgana didn’t know why she’d been drawn to it, except perhaps by a distant memory tingling her consciousness.

“Guard the door,” she ordered. Immediately, Nathara did as she was told. However, Morgana felt her glancing over her shoulder as Morgana opened the pill bottle and spoke an enchantment over them. She did not mind Nathara watching her display of power. After all, it was best to have an audience for such feats.

Morgana carefully placed the pill bottle back where she found it and spun around. “There. The spell I’ve put on these is stronger than before. It will grow more in power the more Emrys takes these. Soon, his nightmares will consume his every thought. They will distress him each night without me having to lift a finger, and paranoia will fill his days.” 

She favoured Nathara with a smirk. They’d both done good work there that day.

“I will ensure he continues to take them,” Nathara offered eagerly.

“Oh, there’s no need. He went through the first bottle quickly enough. Something tells me he’s made himself reliant on such medicine. Now, come.” She picked up the ends of her dress and moved to stand level with Nathara. “We mustn’t linger. What reason will you give Arthur for meeting with him?”

Nathara waved it away. “I’ll fake some news from the Scottish warfront. He’ll be none the wiser.”

Morgana placed her hand gently on Nathara’s cheek, and Nathara seemed to relish in it.

“You’ve done well. Scotland will benefit from you as their leader.” 

“And Britain will be a better place under your rule, my queen.”

Morgana appreciated the answer, even if Nathara only said her for her own personal gain. They went down the stairs again together, and Morgana parted from her to sneak out of the door she entered in, and then went into the forest to meet Morgause.

 

///

 

Once the meeting ended, Merlin exited Guildhall as swiftly and as quietly as possible, not even bothering to see Simmons off. He couldn’t focus on what had been decided, anyway, although he knew he’d signed Dagnija up for a task he prayed she was up to. He hadn’t even considered it during the meeting. He was too focused on the night before.

He’d been aware of Arthur casting him glances throughout the meeting, but Merlin didn’t stick around to find out what they meant. He didn’t even know if he’d go back to the manor that night. Perhaps he could stay with Gaius until he came up with a plan. After all, he couldn’t distract Arthur forever.

But then, what would Arthur think if he didn’t come home? 

Now, Merlin stood on the side of a river lock with freshly painted, but still disused, tugboats anchored to the cobblestones of either side. He folded his arms across the railing and leaned into it, watching his reflection twirl in the water bellow in hopes of it twisting into Freya’s visage. She never came, and he didn’t call her. 

He knew what she’d say anyway. It was the same thing Kilgarrah would tell him. To trust in destiny’s plan. Not to fight it. Not to consider how much his love for Arthur grew—something he didn’t think possible, something that surprised him as much as Arthur always managed to—the previous night. Not to consider his own wants and desires. 

And he didn’t even know what those were. What _did_ he want? If destiny weren’t hanging over his head, what would his answer be when Arthur asked him to officially take the title of consort? To rule at his side?

He wondered if it would be _yes_.

In the distance, he heard the squeals of children, the shouts of adults, and a whistle blowing from the nearby public football pitch. The breeze came from the west, carrying the sound with it. It brought, too, all the memories of the world west of Britain. Merlin hadn’t given much thought to leaving again, to roam the wide world and see how it had changed. He had more than his fill of travel, and it felt good to root himself into one spot. It felt good to be home again. 

And yet, now, as he closed his eyes against the biting late January breeze, wanderlust tugged at him. The scattered pieces inside his chest begged him to run, each tugging with all its might to pull him in opposite directions. It would be easy to run away, to let fate play out as it was intended.

But, all his life, Merlin had been running towards Arthur. He could not run away from him now.

Overheard, Dagnija twirled through the air, chasing small birds or bugs at her fancy. At some points, she’d swoop down low to the water and grab fish, two at a time, skimming the surface with her hind talons. She’d toss them into the air above her, roast them as gravity set in, and swallow them whole. 

Merlin couldn’t be sure how long he’d been standing there. It felt like only a moment, and it felt like years. The sunlight turned rosy and honey-spiced around him. Still, all concept of time was lost to him, but he knew he needed more of it. 

He got none. He felt Arthur’s approach only moments before he heard his name called. 

“There you are. I’ve been looking for you,” Arthur said, settling at Merlin’s side, standing too close with his body oriented to Merlin and his fist gripping the railing. Merlin shrunk in on himself, wanting to disappear. “Why’d you go running off?” 

When Merlin didn’t answer, Arthur’s expression dwindled. “Merlin?” He put his hand on Merlin’s shoulder, and Merlin drew away.

“I’m just tired.”

Arthur must have seen through that. His brows wrinkled in concern, but he turned to face the lock, not knowing what to say. There was silence, until he called for Dagnija to come closer when she strayed too far. She listened to him almost as well as she did Merlin, which usually made Merlin slightly jealous because Arthur held no power of her. The dragon had no reason to follow Arthur’s commands, but she did anyway.

Maybe because she knew how much he loved her, and how much Merlin loved him.

Merlin pulled his sleeves over his hands to keep them from chapping. There was silence again.

After a while, Dagnija began to move downstream again, chasing her prey. Arthur grunted and picked himself off the railing to follow her down the bank. He looked over his shoulder at Merlin, his grin pushed like everything was normal. “Coming?”

Merlin sighed, and followed. 

“I’ve been thinking,” Arthur said out of nowhere, breaking the quiet.

Merlin’s stomach dropped. But his defences raised and he found himself snorting out in automatic humour, “That’s never good.”

Arthur bypassed the slight. “Dag can’t be the only dragon out there. There might be others.”

Merlin hadn’t expected that. He’d been expecting something about the kingdom needing a consort, and the inevitable anger when Merlin said he was the furthest thing from _fitting_.

He looked down at his shoes, concentrating on his steps, perfectly in sync with Arthur’s. “You mean eggs?” he corrected, and Arthur hummed in the affirmative. Merlin shrugged and kicked a pebble out of his path. He didn’t like to think of such things. It had been a miracle Dagnija’s egg had survived, and that he’d found it. He didn’t expect that to happen again. 

“I haven’t heard of any,” he lied. There had been one he’d heard of two centuries ago in Japan. He’d looked for it, but eventually decided the rumour had no merit.

“That doesn’t mean they don’t exist. We can search for them once this business with Morgana and Mordred is over.”

It seemed like it would never be over.

“Who knows? We might find Dag a friend—or a mate,” Arthur continued. He nudged Merlin’s shoulder with his own, knocking Merlin gently off balance. “ _You_ could be a grandfather.”

Despite himself, Merlin smirked at the thought. But it was impossible—or, at the very least, unlikely. “Why, so you can have an army of dragons?” 

Arthur straightened out indignantly. “I’ll admit, it would come in handy,” he allowed. It was a non-answer. “But that’s not my aim. It would bring you happiness, wouldn’t it? To have more dragons?” 

Merlin’s weak smile grew, warmer now, and shakier. _You bring me happiness_ , he almost said, but didn’t. It would only make what was to come harder for both of them. 

Instead, he decided to be practical.

“I don’t know,” he answered. “Even if there are more eggs—which I doubt—I don’t know if I could control more than one dragon at time. There aren’t any other dragonlords left, and I couldn’t possibly hope to care for multiple alone.” 

Arthur shuffled a little awkwardly. “Well, there aren’t any other dragonlords _yet_ , but you said it was passed down by your bloodline.”

“Which ends with me,” Merlin reminded him.

“It doesn’t have to.” Arthur had stopped walking. His words had halted Merlin in his tracks. He narrowed his eyes at Arthur, trying to decipher the vulnerability etched into his face. 

He’d never known Arthur to be so indirect about anything, and Merlin half-wished he’d get to the point. The waiting was torture enough. He’d rather break both of their hearts as cleanly as possible. He didn’t need the added prospect of future plans hanging over his head, too.

“Arthur, what are you saying?” 

“Well, if all goes to plan, I’m going to need an heir one day. There’s no reason he shouldn’t have a sibling, too. And modern medicine has come a long way in the reproductive field, especially for men in our situation. And . . .” 

Merlin got the distinct impression that Arthur had rehearsed what he was saying. It felt like a presentation, all he needed was a slide show and a laser pointer. However, it seemed like Arthur’s well-formed bullet points were getting away from him, and he was starting to ramble.

And Merlin wasn’t sure he got the point of it all. He began to get dizzy with confusion.

“Wait, you want to talk about _kids_?” Merlin interrupted, stopping Arthur before he hurt himself. “I didn’t even know you wanted kids.”

Arthur looked sheepish for a moment, but then he squared himself in a way only royalty could. His voice was small, betraying his stance, when he asked, “Don’t you?”

Merlin’s breath caught, and he stared at Arthur for a long time. He didn’t know what to say, or how to say it. He’d imagined children of his own, of course. At once point in his life, he’d even longed for a family. But it had always been a dream and nothing more. It wasn’t something he could ever have.

“It wouldn’t work,” he began, trying not to sound mournful. He’d buried his despair on the matter a long time ago. It was no use dwelling on. “I’m immortal. There’s no promise my children would be, too.” He couldn’t bear that. No one was meant to watch their children grow old and die. “It’ll hurt enough watching you—.”

He stopped himself. It was too horrible to go on.

Arthur’s eyes lit with realisation, and then his features hardened.

“Why are we talking about this?” Merlin snipped, even though he’d tried to sound casual. He started walking again, trying to navigate away from the conversation, but Arthur grabbed his arm and spun him around again.

“Because you’ve lived for over a thousand years and you still won’t allow yourself to have a life,” Arthur told him, and the words were too crafted to be new. There was no telling how often that thought had run through Arthur’s mind—how many times he’d kept it to himself.

Merlin had thought it, too.

Arthur deserved someone who could share a throne with him, grow old with him, live a life with him, have children with him. It wasn’t anything Merlin could give, and they both knew it.

It was ridiculous beating around the bush any longer.

He let out a breath that sounded too think, too wet. He stared off at the water as if that would make it easier somehow. “Arthur, I can’t give you the life you want.” 

Arthur’s brows pinched, like Merlin knew they would. He saw them in his peripheral vision. “What the hell are you talking about me for? I’m _trying_ to talk about you.” 

If Merlin had been thinking of himself, he’d cling to Arthur for dear life and never let go. But he was tired and cold and he wanted to find a small, dark den to hole up in like an animal until the winter was over—or to be buried beneath the frost.

He shook his head and swallowed audibly in attempt to stay his tears. He tried again. “Arthur, I’m not allowed to—.”

“Allowed to _what_?” At last, Arthur appeared to be grasping the situation. “You’re a grown man. You can make your own decisions." 

And Merlin had to laugh at that. “Yeah, if only.”

“No, don’t you _dare_ , Merlin.” The firm cuff of Arthur’s fist released him, and Arthur stomped back towards the lock’s railing. He put his hands on his hips and hung his head petulantly.

Merlin let his eyes slipped closed. It was better this way, he tried to tell himself. He knew he shouldn’t have tempted destiny. Maybe it wasn’t too late to get it back on course. 

The logic of it didn’t settle his frayed nerves and exhausted emotions.

“What’s the matter with you? Do you really think you’re so un-loveable?”

Anger burned up through him, like fire licking up from beneath the earth. “You’d be better off if I were! Don’t you want a life? Don’t you want to be happy?” 

Arthur turned, glaring. “I _am_!” 

Merlin froze. His jaw worked back and forth, like he wanted to say something but didn’t quite know what. The angry tears stinging his eyes lingered just in case they were still required, but his heart hammered when Arthur’s words sank in. 

“Can you understand that, Merlin? Can you get that through that thick head of yours? And can you tell me, just once, what _you_ want?” He reached into his pocket and pulled out the ring box, and Merlin’s stomach flipped. “Because I know what I do.”

He shoved it against Merlin’s chest, telling Merlin he was angrier than he let on—which mean he was hurt. His grin was all teeth.

Merlin held the box against his chest until Arthur drew away. Tentatively, he opened it and looked inside.

There were two rings. They were thin and gold, and Merlin thought he recognised them, save for the gems embedded around the bands.

“They’re ours,” Arthur explained meekly, like he still regretted refashioning the rings. “I had them remade.” 

Merlin couldn’t stop staring. He was suddenly very warm. He wanted to keep that feeling in his chest.

“Why?” he heard himself say.

“ _Why_?” Arthur repeated, offended. “Because I _wanted_ to properly ask you to be my consort, but since you won’t allow me even that . . .”

There was a question hanging at the end of that sentence. _The_ question.

Merlin looked up from the rings. Arthur looked nervous and angry and, more than anything else, terrified. He was already readying himself for Merlin to reject him.

What a pair they made: neither of them thinking they were good enough for the other. The thought almost made Merlin laugh. 

And then something suddenly came over him, something he couldn’t quite define. It wasn’t happiness exactly, but it shifted around inside of his chest, slotting all its contents back into their proper places. 

“If I say no, can I still keep the ring?” he wondered haltingly.

Arthur looked weary and disappointed, but more in himself than in Merlin. “It’s yours,” he sighed. “You have the right to wear it.”

He couldn’t mask his hurt anymore. It was too large. Merlin looked guilty down at the rings. 

Arthur wanted this. And he wanted Arthur.

How could he refuse him? 

“And if I say yes?” 

Arthur perked up. He looked so ready to hope, and so nervous that Merlin was teasing him. “Do you mean it?” he asked. “This is what you want? You’re not just doing it for me?” 

That was exactly why Merlin was doing it. 

“I want what I’ve always wanted: to watch you become king,” Merlin answered, “and to stand at your side when you do.”

Arthur was biting back a grin. Merlin wished he’d let it free. He’d do anything to be the reason for Arthur’s smile.

He gazed at Arthur like he was impossible. All those fairytales and bedtime stories and legends about the great and ancient king, and none of them even came close to the real thing.

He gave Arthur back the box. “Go on, ask me properly.”

Arthur held it delicately between his palms and extended it to Merlin. He cleared his throat and straightened his shoulders like he had the jitters. In a tone similar to the one he used to rally his troops before battle, he said, “Merlin, will you be the king consort of Britain?”

Merlin’s heart swelled inside of him. 

 _No_ , he heard a chorus of long-dead voices yell into his head, begging him to think clearly, urging him to run away. But Arthur was hoping for a different answer, and Merlin feared he’d lose him forever if he didn’t get it.

And he loved him. The thought of that filled him up and drowned out all else. 

Merlin bit his lower lip and let out a prolonged humming sound, if only to see Arthur sweat. 

“Might as well,” he said at last with a shrug.

Arthur put up appearances by rolling his eyes, but his mirth was set free. He kissed Merlin, who was suddenly lightheaded with giddiness and Arthur Arthur Arthur. Merlin would never let him go. Never.

Arthur put the sapphire ring on Merlin’s finger, and Merlin slipped the ruby one onto his. Dagnija let out a delighted sound as she tossed another fish into the air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reminder to read the notes at the top of the next chapter!!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! First of all, if you're seeing this, thank you for reading this far! You rock :)
> 
> I just wanted to give a little warning/disclaimer before this chapter, because I don't really want to throw anyone off guard or make anyone uncomfortable. This chapter could give off some non-con vibes, or be non-con itself. Truthfully, I'm not really sure. I asked my betas and they said it was probably fine, but I don't know if that'll be the general consensus?? It may be a little rough to read, but I'm kinda in a gray area here so that's why I didn't put a warning for it on the fic.
> 
> That being said, it is not my intention to make anyone feel uncomfortable or take advantage of anyone reading this! If you think this fic should have a warning on it for non-con because of this chapter, please tell me in the comments. If enough people feel that way, I'm happy to put the warning up.
> 
> I just wanted to get my reservations out of the way so this chapter doesn't come totally out of left field for anyone reading.
> 
> Thanks!

Gwen made her way to the training pitch in the park a little before sundown. She and Lancelot planned to spend the evening together, and they’d arranged to meet after sparring practice. However, it seemed she wasn’t the only one waiting for a soldier to finish his work.

Merlin sat on the metal bench along the park’s pathway. He watched as Nathara and Arthur’s swords met. Arthur followed her lead in slow motion as she taught him a tactic from the north. The knights and a group of soldiers stood to the side watching the demonstration like school children at a lesson. Further off, some civilians with blankets and thermoses in hand to combat the frigid February air had lined up on the path as spectators.

Soon, their source of entertainment would be gone, and the soldiers would not have to train in a park. The barracks would open officially in just a few months’ time. Already, some of the soldiers and staff had moved into them. Before long, all the soldiers and their families would live there, and more space would be made available in the city. Gwen was proud of the way the barracks had turned out, and she was certain all its tenants would be happy there. They would certainly have more privacy training. In the meantime, an audience in the park would have to do.

She made her way to Merlin’s bench.

It was not unusual to have seen Merlin watching the knights train when he was Arthur’s servant, but Gwen was surprised to see him there voluntarily. She knew he had no real interest in swordplay.

“Have I missed anything exciting?” Gwen asked, sitting down next to him. On the field, Lancelot noticed her and gave her a quick wave and a flashing grin. She returned it happily, ignoring the way Elyan mocked them by dramatically falling back into Gwaine’s arms, his hand on his forehead in a swooning gesture. 

“Not at all,” Merlin responded, slightly turning his head towards her in a distracted smile. His eyes, however, remained forward and void of any expression. They followed Nathara, Gwen noticed, not Arthur. 

Gwen furrowed her brow, wondering if something was the matter. However, before she could say anything, Arthur’s voice rang out on the field. “Lancelot!”

“Sire?” Lancelot immediately stood to attention. Gwen hoped she hadn’t gotten Lancelot in trouble by being there. She didn’t mean to cause any disturbance, and worried he was about to be punished for it.

“We will demonstrate to the others what Nathara just performed. Face me." 

Gwen relaxed. Lancelot wasn’t being scolded. He was chosen because of his skill.

Merlin visibly relaxed, too, when Nathara made room for Lancelot to join Arthur.

The sound of metal scraping and clanging filled the air, along with exhilarated shouts from the onlookers. As Gwen watched the proceedings, she chewed idly on her lower lip. Both men appeared as though they weren’t holding back, like they were enemies on the battlefield. Of course, Gwen knew they would never really harm one another on purpose; but the crowd certainly seemed convinced they were fighting in earnest, if their whoops were any indication. 

In the end, Arthur won by knocking Lancelot to the ground. Lancelot raised his palms in submission. As Arthur gave Lancelot a hand up, Gwen groaned a little in disappointment at seeing Lancelot lose. It had been a close fight, and lord knew Lancelot had bested Arthur plenty of times, but she couldn’t help who she was rooting for.

Next to her, Merlin moaned a little, too, like he’d been eager to watch Arthur get knocked on his ass. It made Gwen laugh, and Arthur announced, “That’s enough for today. Dismissed.”

The soldiers went off to the sides of the field to collect their things. Those whose families had been watching rejoined with them, and the spectators slowly began thinning out. As it did so, Arthur exchanged a few words with the Nathara. They must have been amusing because both let out laughs that carried through the air as they waved goodbye. Merlin got to his feet, and Gwen watched with pinched brows as the fists at his sides slowly slackened. 

Then, Arthur made his way to the bench, and Gwen stood to greet him. “Now _that_ is how you wield a sword,” Arthur bragged as if he’d just answered a specific question. “Were you paying attention, Merlin?”

“Oh, yes!” Merlin’s demeanour had changed as quickly as an arrow slung from its bow. “What an amazing display of skill!”

Gwen stifled her laughter behind her glove as Arthur rolled his eyes. He wiped the sweat off his brow with the back of his sleeve and looked off at the dispersing crowd.

“At least my people appreciate me.”

“The only thing I’d _appreciate_ is you having a shower. You stink to high heavens!”

Arthur gasped loudly and swiftly trapped Merlin in his arms. “Do I?” 

“No! Arthur, no!” Merlin protested and tried to push Arthur away. In the faux struggle, Gwen saw a golden flash on his finger, and was reminded of the rings she helped remake. In the weeks since they started wearing their wedding bands and it was announced he would officially be named consort, Merlin seemed much happier than he had been previously. In fact, she hadn’t seen him smile so often and so genuinely since their youth. 

She looked away to give them their privacy, and found Lancelot striding towards her. She greeted him with a kiss to the cheek, and he slung his arm across her shoulders. He was still warm from exertion, and Gwen nestled herself close into his side. Such contact always made her chest flutter.

Merlin and Arthur hadn’t even noticed Lancelot’s arrival. Actually, they may as well have been the only ones left on the pitch. Merlin had given up pretending he was repulsed. He’d latched his arms around Arthur’s neck and Arthur held him at the hips as they kissed.

“Alright, you two. Remember there are children here,” Lancelot teased, though his expression spoke louder. He was happy for his friends, just as Gwen was. But she was also slightly jealous. She looked at the rings on their fingers again and so wished she had one, too.

She reached up and placed her hand on Lancelot’s resting on her shoulder, feeling the bareness of his fingers. She wondered if he shared her hopes.

Merlin and Arthur stopped kissing at once. Arthur appeared a little embarrassed as he glanced around for any mothers pulling their young ones away before things go too heated. Merlin only chuckled when he saw a newspaper photographer quickly drop his camera from his eye.

“I suppose it’s time I took the king consort home,” said Arthur, his voice like sugar around the words.

“Don’t stay up too late,” Gwen joked as they bid each other goodnight. “Remember, we’ve a committee meeting bright and early.” 

“Yes, Queen Guinevere,” Merlin laughed, and he and Arthur set off the pitch.

“It looks like Merlin’s settling into his new role,” Lancelot observed as he watched them go.

However, Gwen disagreed. She wasn’t certain Merlin would ever see himself as consort. It was evident in the way he’d prepared himself to jump to Arthur’s aid, even while on the practice field against a friend. For his own sake, Gwen prayed Merlin could one day shake off the role of servant. 

She smiled up at Lancelot. “Ready?” 

“Almost,” he said, and before she could question it, he swept his arms behind her knees and took her fully into his arms. She gasped at the rush it gave her. “There, I think that’s everything I need.” He made a play of searching the ground of anything else.

She shook her head and folded her arms around him. “You’d better not drop me.” 

Teasingly, his grip on her loosened, and her heart dropped in the split second before he regained his hold. He was grinning wildly, and she realised her arms had tightened around his neck.

 

///

 

Morgana was standing near the window when Merlin walked into the master bedroom of the manor. The lamplight twinkled off the jewels on her necklace, and bathed the shimmering fabric of her black dress in amber. She turned halfway to him, her sharp profile a silhouette and her eyes shadowed. 

“What news of the prisoner?” she asked.

Merlin had just come from the prison. It had once been full, but now only two people remained in it. They were in different cells, far enough away so they couldn’t touch but close enough that they could see each other.

“He’s still not talking,” Merlin reported. 

Arthur. Arthur was the prisoner. He sat in the corner of his cell whenever Merlin paid him a visit. He brooded, never once glancing up at Merlin. At first, it had hurt. To be rejected. To be rejected by Arthur, the man he’d done everything for. The man he would have died for, the man he lived for. The man he had loved. Once.

Morgana let out a breath that could have been a laugh as she strode away from the window and towards the dresser. Her back to Merlin, she reached around and unclasped the hook of her necklace, and placed it on top of the wood.

“We’ll see if he changes his mind after we’ve executed his precious Guinevere,” Morgana sneered. “He’d better. She’s the only one left to execute—besides him, of course.” 

Merlin watched as she pulled at the zipper of her dress, how it pooled in currents at her ankles when it dropped to the floor. Her silk slip was of the same deep, nighttime colour that made her skin look as white as ivory. The only colour on her was the red of her lips.

“Maybe we’ll let Mordred have his fun with him first,” she considered, a litany in her voice. 

Merlin didn’t react, neither outside nor inside. He felt nothing for either Arthur or Gwen anymore.

“Is that all you require of me, Your Majesty?” Merlin asked.

“Oh, I think not,” she cooed, but there was nothing comforting about her tone. It was as sharp as the blade of a guillotine. She half-glanced over her shoulder at Merlin, the corner of her lip curved up. Her eyes glowed, and the bedroom door slammed shut.

She took out the pin holding her hair, letting the dark waves fall in rivulets. Merlin’s pulse leapt as something unfurled low in his abdomen—some intense, burning want. It was a lust he’d always had for her, since the day he first laid eyes on her in Camelot. Now, it was ten-fold.

With a few quick paces, he filled the space between them, pressing his chest to her back. She shuddered at the contact as he dragged his hands down her sides and gripped her hips, feeling the smooth material of her slip. Her reached lower, and up under the hem of the garment.

She craned her neck and caught his lips in a deep, destructive kiss, all teeth. The fire in his stomach was building up with pressure, and he groaned into her lungs.

She turned around to face him, hooked her arms around his neck, and jumped up to wrap her legs around his hips. He caught her and placed her on the top of the dresser, hearing the contents rattle as their bodies slid against each other. Morgana flicked her wrist, and the buckle of Merlin’s belt unclasped. She tore off his shirt to knead her fingers into the bare muscles of his chest. He stepped out of his shoes and took off his jeans. He hiked up her slip until she let him raise it over her head, allowing him to nibble on the soft flesh beneath. Morgana chuckled mirthlessly as he picked her up again and carried her to the bed, where he’d suck red marks into every pale slice of flesh. 

His breath quickened as they crashed together. Her nails dug into his back, and he’d wear the bruises and scraps they left behind like a badge of honour. She called his name—Emrys. Always Emrys.

He wasn’t even certain who Merlin was anymore, or even if he still existed. 

He watched her eyes flicker with gold, and he could feel his own magic curling out of him. It was a great and terrible thing when their magics entwined. The room started to rumble and quake as his magic burst and exploded around hers. 

It was bliss—more peace than Merlin had ever known in his whole life.

He’d been hooked since his first try.

Merlin woke with a start.

He was still in the manor’s bedroom, but Arthur was snoring softly next to him. Arthur was facedown on his pillow, one arm slung over Merlin’s bare stomach beneath where his shirt had bunched up from sleep, and his fingers cupping Merlin’s side. Merlin had fallen asleep with his hand wrapped loosely around Arthur’s forearm. And yet, despite the contact, Merlin couldn’t feel Arthur’s touch at all. The darkest of night was shrouded around them, promising goblins and ghosts around every shadowed corner. 

He felt bile forcing its way up his throat, and he tore from the bed. It was a miracle he made it to the toilet before retching. By the end of it, he had tears in his eyes that had little to do with the sick. Every muscle in his body convulsed and he was too weak to move.

 _No no no_ , he thought, squeezing his eyes shut and trying to push the dream away. But it remained—every single vivid detail. It felt nothing like a dream. It felt like a premonition, a message of what could be. It felt like a prophecy from the Crystals.

No. Merlin would never do that—not to Arthur. He would never betray him! He would never leave him! More than that, he’d never align himself with Morgana. The Crystals were wrong. They had to be! 

He would do anything to ensure this future remained nothing but a nightmare.

Merlin realised he was crying. His heart flapped its wings shallowly, a fragile and broken thing.

He couldn’t get his body to cooperate. He curled up on the floor, letting the chilled tile cool him. He never actually fell back to sleep, but he drifted on the cusp on consciousness for hours.

That was how Arthur found him in the light of morning. As soon as Arthur knelt down beside him, as soon as he touched Merlin, Merlin again began to shake. He buried his face into Arthur’s chest, promising over and over again, “I’ll never leave you!” 

When that no longer comforted him, he hiccupped a new mantra. He couldn’t stop himself. Fear and desperation numbed him to his core. “Please stay with me.”

Arthur promised not to leave, though Merlin didn’t know if he was talking about their current situation or forever. He held Merlin until long after Merlin’s body, exhausted and dehydrated, had stopped quaking. He held him until Merlin fell asleep in his lap.

 

///

 

Arthur had been late for that morning’s meeting. He shouldn’t have even gone. His mind was elsewhere—back at home, with Merlin—not on the harvests of the hydroponic farms of London and the Midlands, or on discussion of the newest draft of their government charter. He knew Merlin would argue if he’d shirked his duties, but the moments apart only made Arthur tap his fingers impatiently. He couldn’t take his eyes off Merlin’s empty chair at the Round Table.

Over the years, Arthur had learned to deal with Merlin’s nightmares. He tried hard not to lose his temper or snap due to a loss of sleep. He did what he could to comfort Merlin, to keep the darkness at bay. Merlin had lived a long life, and Arthur assumed nightmares came with the territory. And besides, he’d lived it for Arthur. The least Arthur could do what assure him the ghosts of the past remained in the past.

But this time had been different. Arthur had never seen Merlin behave like that. He’d been so broken. Arthur tried to sooth him, to talk him out of it. It was like Merlin couldn’t even hear him. He’d clung to Arthur as if he was about to evaporate into thin air. When Merlin had calmed and fallen asleep, Arthur picked him off the floor and put him back into bed.

He shouldn’t have left.

Even in sleep, Merlin’s face was pinched and troubled. Arthur should have been there in case he had another bad dream. What would he think if he awoke to find Arthur had disappeared?

And what, Arthur could not figure out as the thought plagued his mind, had Merlin dreamt?

“Sire, is something the matter? I could not help but notice how distracted you’ve been today,” Gaius asked, pulling Arthur aside, when the committee broke for lunch. 

Arthur swallowed hard, knowing the question Gaius really wanted to ask. _Where’s Merlin?_ His eyes searched Arthur’s face in concern, begging for an answer. 

“It’s Merlin,” Arthur confirmed in a heavy sigh. “I found him this morning curled up on the bathroom floor.”

Gaius blinked and jerked his head back in worry. “Is he ill? Should I have a look at him?”

Arthur paused for a moment as two guards walked by. He didn’t want anyone to know about Merlin’s weakness. Hell, Arthur didn’t even want to acknowledge it! With Morgana and her weapon still at large, they couldn’t afford rumour getting out that their sorcerer was destabilised. The kingdom couldn’t afford for Merlin to mentally check out, especially now. Arthur could not— _would_ not—allow Merlin to lose himself to depression.

He waited until the guards were out of earshot to say, “No. I think he’d been dreaming.” He pressed his lips together, wondering if he should have admitted it. Then, he mentally kicked himself for thinking such things. It was Gaius. He had a right to know what was going on with Merlin. Perhaps he’d even be able to help. 

“What about?”

“He didn’t say.”

“Was it a vision from the Crystals?”

Arthur’s eyes lit up in terror. He hadn’t even considered that. “Could it be? He would have said something, wouldn’t he? If there was some immediate danger? He would have told me!” He tried to rein himself in, to not become frantic in the face of the unknown.

Gaius appeared to be thinking, and then said, “Not if what he saw truly worried him as much as you say. Perhaps, when you found him, he still wasn’t in his right mind.”

Arthur dragged his hand down his face in exhaustion and frustration. Had there been a time since Arthur returned when Merlin was fully in his right mind? He realised Merlin probably wouldn’t tell him if it were a vision, after all, as he never did. He wished Merlin would just trust him—or at least speak to him about such things! 

“Maybe,” he answered thoughtfully. 

“I shall come round tonight, Arthur, to ensure Merlin is all right,” Gaius promised. He put his hand on Arthur’s arm in a comforting way and gave Arthur his best show of support. 

Arthur nodded and remembered to breathe. If Merlin wasn’t going to talk to him, maybe he would talk to Gaius. Anything was better than Merlin withdrawing into himself again.

“Thank you, Gaius.”

“Now, get something to eat, my boy. You look as pale as a ghost.”

Gaius released him and teetered down the corridor. Arthur watched him go, running his hand through his hair in exasperation. He wanted to go back to the manor and check up on Merlin, but perhaps Gaius was right. Arthur hadn’t eaten anything all day, and he probably wouldn’t have gotten anything out of Merlin, anyway.

He decided to let Merlin rest. At least one of them had to see to the duties of the kingdom.

 

///

 

It was night again, much earlier than it should have been. Merlin watched the light fade outside the window with growing trepidation.

He didn’t want to go to sleep again, no matter how ragged he felt. He woke that morning to find Arthur wasn’t next to him; and at first he’d panicked until he realised there was a meeting that day. He thought maybe he should have attended it, but he dared not show his face.

His dream was still haunting him, and he was certain anyone who laid eyes on him that day would read what was on his mind. No matter how he tried to shake the thoughts away, he couldn’t unstitch his guilt and embarrassment from the fabric of his sleeves.

Merlin could barely face himself in the mirror. How could he expect to see others? It was better to stay away from people that day. He even avoided the manor’s staff.

All morning, he was sick with worry that Arthur would return during lunch to talk. However, when lunchtime passed and Arthur did not show, Merlin’s dread took new shape.

What if Arthur didn’t come back?

Merlin tried to occupy his thoughts elsewhere. He spent the day half-reading books of magic, training Dagnija, and shooing Archie away from the birds on the windowsill. It was busywork, and often caused his mind to wander.

He could still feel Morgana’s skin on his. Once, he caught himself daydreaming about it, and felt arousal prickle inside of him. He hated himself for it. He got into the shower and scrubbed his skin raw to banish the sensation. It didn’t work. He could feel her. He could smell the scent of her hair. It was everything he’d once craved in his first days of Camelot. 

That was supposed to be a long time ago. That was supposed to be in the past. Not the future. He couldn’t let it.

And now it was night again. He was afraid of dreaming.

The bedroom door creaked open. Merlin jumped. He hadn’t heard footsteps, and his heart sank when he realised it must have been Arthur. He couldn’t feel Arthur’s presence anywhere, but his mind was too chaotic to focus on much of anything. At the very same moment, he was both relieved Arthur had returned and terrified of facing him. It had been a miracle Arthur hadn’t asked after Merlin’s dream that morning. Now, he would want to know. 

However, it wasn’t Arthur that peeked his head through the door.

“Merlin?” Gaius asked, looking around until his eyes landed on Merlin, sitting up in bed with the duvet a mess over his crossed legs.

Merlin didn’t know what to feel. He wasn’t expecting Gaius. He hadn’t practiced a speech for Gaius, so he suddenly had no idea what he was going to say. He realised he was gaping. 

Gaius took it as an invitation to come inside. “How are you feeling?” he asked in his professional tone, like Merlin was one of his patients. Merlin couldn’t bear to be examined and probed at the moment. He was already too worn thin.

“Where’s Arthur?” he asked, not meaning to do so with such fervour.

Gaius did not seem surprised by the outburst. “Downstairs in his study. We’ve just gotten in. He asked me to check up on you.”

Merlin deflated as Gaius sat on the edge of the mattress. So, Arthur had come back, but he didn’t want to deal with Merlin? He passed him off on Gaius.

“He was rather worried about you.” There was a severity in Gaius’ tone. “He told me what happened.”

“Did he?”

“You had some sort of nightmare?” Gaius asked. He leaned in, as though conspiring. “Do you think it came from the Crystals?”

“No!” Merlin immediately reacted, his voice coming out as a deep roar. It shocked Gaius. Merlin blinked at his lap, shamefaced. “It just . . . It can’t have been, Gaius.”

He didn’t have to glance up to know what kind of look Gaius was giving him. Pitying.

“Was it that bad?” Gaius wondered. “What did you see, Merlin?” 

Merlin let out a rattling sigh and pushed back the pressure in his eyes. He couldn’t keep this from Gaius. If he didn’t tell someone, it would fester inside of him until he went mad.

“Morgana was queen. She’d won. She had Arthur and Gwen as her prisoners,” he whispered. “She’d killed everyone else—the knights, the committee, _you_.”

“And you?” Gaius prompted.

Merlin’s insides dropped. He bit his tongue, not wanting to say it aloud. He was afraid it would come true if he did.

But Gaius was looking him expectantly, and Merlin was too tired to come up with a lie.

“No,” he admitted after his eyes flicked to the door, just to make sure Arthur wasn’t eavesdropping outside. His voice quavered as he went on, “I was her ally. I was— _more_ than that.”

Gaius sat back, understanding. “I see.”

Merlin couldn’t meet his eyes. 

Gaius stiffened out, trying hard to look thoughtful instead of judgmental. He rearranged his hands on his lap. The movement suddenly made Merlin desperate. He realised that Arthur had asked Gaius to speak with him for a reason.

“You can’t tell Arthur,” Merlin told him quickly, forcing himself to look up. 

Gaius didn’t seem to understand. “Why not?”

“ _Please_ ,” Merlin urged. “He’ll think I’ve betrayed him.” 

Gaius opened and closed his mouth a few times, stammering. “But you haven’t done anything wrong, Merlin.”

On some level, Merlin knew that. He just couldn’t convince himself of it. He wanted so badly to think it some horrible dream, a product of stress and imagination. But he couldn’t. It had felt so real. 

And it could be real very soon. Merlin had been warned destiny was askew. He could have fixed it. Instead, he made it worse by agreeing to be consort! What was he thinking? There was no telling what repercussions it could bring: Merlin siding with Morgana, Arthur’s death . . . 

He recalled the other vision he’d received from the Crystals, warning of Arthur’s demise. Merlin promised himself he wouldn’t let that happen, just as he promised himself he’d never join with Morgana.

But he had no idea how to prevent either, but he would—somehow. He had to.

“And I never will,” Merlin told him, surging forward and grabbing Gaius’ wrist, “so Arthur never needs to know.”

Gaius narrowed his eyes in scepticism, and for a moment Merlin felt like he could read his mind. He looked like he was about to refuse, so Merlin rounded his eyes in a pleading expression. Gaius wavered and let out a breath. He nodded, resigned. “If you think it’s best.” 

Merlin remembered how to breathe. Gaius always knew how to keep his secrets. This time would be no different. “Thank you.” 

“What should I tell Arthur?”

“Nothing,” said Merlin. “I’ll talk to him.”

Gaius accepted it and stood up. The lines of his shoulders softened. “Is there anything you need, Merlin? I could make something to help you sleep.”

Merlin forced a low-wattage smile. “I’m fine. I’ve got these, remember?” He reached for the container of his sleeping pills on the nightstand and gave it a rattle.

“Indeed,” Gaius said, still cautious of the remedy.

Gaius left, saying a guard would drive him home. Merlin didn’t feel relaxed, exactly, but the conversation had spurred him on if only a little. He decided he had to know the truth—if he really was going mad, _again_ , or if this was some kind of premonition. He’d happily choose the former.

He tiptoed to the door and peered outside to make sure Gaius was gone. He listened out for a moment. Everything was silent, eerie in the absence of daylight. His heart in his throat, he closed the door.

He called for Kilgharrah.

The waiting always killed Merlin. By now, one would think he’d be patient, or at least accustomed to waiting. In the days of Camelot, Merlin would stand in the clearing outside the city, biting his nails, pacing, or bouncing on his heels, for what seemed like eternity before the dragon swooped across the moon. Now, Merlin knew what eternity felt like. It was nowhere near as long as the seconds that currently ticked by. 

“Is something the matter, Merlin?” said the ancient voice from behind him. “You seem troubled.”

Merlin turned around. He attempted to muster as much bravado as he possibly could. He moulded his face into stone, determined to get the answer he sought. He was already preparing for the war, though he did not know against whom. Himself, most likely. 

“I saw something. In a dream,” he told Kilgharrah, not letting a hint of emotion into his voice. He couldn’t allow himself to crack. 

Kilgharrah tilted his head in interest. The motion was barely visible in the shadows of the corner. Only his eyes glowed, almost like they weren’t attached to anything. “From the Crystals?”

Merlin tensed his fists at his sides. His stomach sloshed. He suddenly wasn’t so sure he wanted the answer. Still, he recounted the dream. He had to know, and quickly. 

After he was done, Kilgharrah said nothing. He merely hummed, as though they were discussing the weather.

“Morgana and I together would be a force more powerful than the world has ever seen,” Merlin prompted off the silence. He hated that Kilgharrah wasn’t saying anything. He felt like he was dangling off the edge of a cliff.

“There would be a prophecy about that! Wouldn’t there?” Merlin stepped forward, suddenly shaking no matter how he tried to control himself. The tremors seeped into his voice. “I’ve never heard—. Do you know of such a prophecy?” Merlin shook his head, loosening some of the moisture that had built up in his eyes. “Is there anything that says Morgana and I—?”

“There is nothing,” was the answer, as calm as could be.

Merlin closed his eyes. A sensation rose up inside of him akin to floating, like he was ebbing on a quiet sea. He listened to Kilgharrah continue, “But that no longer means it will not come to pass. I have told you what might happen if you did not heed my warnings, Merlin. Yet, again, you chose to ignore me. Why summon me if you will not listen to what I have to say?”

Just like that, the ecstasy was ripped away, along with all the air in the room. 

“Why would I listen when your advice is to sacrifice the only happiness I’ve ever known?”

Kilgharrah scoffed. “Well, I’m sorry if I do not see your _happiness_ as any consequence, Merlin!” He said the word as if it were the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard. “You are acting like a child. Believe what you will, that it was a vision from the Crystals or that you are once more losing your mind; but do not come crying to me when you finally understand you’ve put everyone in grave peril.”

“No,” Merlin said. He wouldn’t believe it. There must have been another explanation. He knew himself. Whatever happened, he knew he’d never abandon Arthur.

He scanned the room, eyes wide. It hadn’t been a vision and he wasn’t going mad.

Morgana must have known Merlin had visions from the Crystals. Uther had been present when he gained the power. He had to have told her!

Merlin thought of the other dreams he had, the ones that were prophecies. Some of them hadn’t yet come to pass, and he was starting to think they never would. Many of the prophecies didn’t add up to the big picture. They warned Morgana would win and Arthur would turn against Merlin and magic; and yet, the Neos were being forced back north every day and Arthur was learning to welcome magic. Even the recent talks with the Druids were going better than could be expected, and a trust was building.

Why hadn’t Merlin realised this before? Some visions gave him a sick feeling in his gut. He’d, each time, attributed it to jealousy or despair. But it was scepticism, his subconscious magic knowing better than he did. The visions weren’t real. They were designed to mess with his head.

“Morgana is doing this somehow,” he said, completely certain. “She’s implanting these visions into my head! Do you think—?”

Merlin glanced back to Kilgharrah, and his words died on his lips. The dragon was gone. Only darkness remained. 

Merlin didn’t let it hinder him. He didn’t need a second opinion. He was absolutely certain. He rushed to the bed and tore off the duvet, the pillows, the bedclothes. He overturned the mattress and the box spring. He crouched beneath the frame to check for a mandrake root. He pulled out the drawers in the nightstands and emptied its contents onto the floor. 

There was nothing. No talisman or charm, no totem or rune, no hex bag—nothing.

It didn’t stop him. He grabbed one of Arthur’s daggers off the dresser and tore into the pillows. There were only feathers and cotton.

He couldn’t see straight anymore. He had only one thought: find whatever was doing this to him. He’d rip up the floorboards if he had to! He’d burn the manor down! Morgana could _not_ get inside his head! He could _not_ let her control him!

Frenzied, he fisted the handle of the knife and ripped a line down the middle of the mattress.

“What the _hell_ are you doing?” 

Merlin hadn’t heard the door open. It felt like the floor had dropped out from under him. He snapped his head up to find Arthur standing in the doorway. Arthur was somewhere between utter rage and crippling worry.

For the first time, Merlin took in the state of the room. It looked like a tornado had blown through. It was completely devastated. Shattered bits and loose feathers everywhere, including in Merlin’s hair. Merlin considered the possibility that maybe he _was_ , in fact, going insane.

“I—,” he stammered a few times, not knowing how to follow it up. Arthur was waiting for an answer. Merlin dropped the dagger onto the destroyed bed and watched it bounce. “I thought—.”

“Merlin . . .” 

Apparently, worry had won over. Arthur paced into the room, trampling right over the decimation, until he got to Merlin. He grabbed Merlin by the shoulders and jerked his body around to face him. He fished for the gaze Merlin couldn’t grant him.

“What’s gotten into you?” It was less of a demand and more of a plea.

Merlin’s fear returned, hitting him like a wall. “I think Morgana’s done something to me.”

“What!” Arthur’s grip tightened. Merlin continued to stare downward. “What do you mean? What’s she done? _Merlin_!”

“She’s been getting into my head—.”

Arthur barely let him finish. His teeth were bared. Merlin could hear it in his voice. “How?” 

“That’s what I was _looking for_!” Merlin gestured wildly about the room.

Arthur followed the movement desperately, determined to find the source of the curse with just a cursory glance about. “You think it’s in here?” 

“It has to be. It’s only when I’m sleeping. It—It’s dreams.” 

Pressure was returning to Merlin’s eyes, making his temples pound and his face redden. He swatted at his cheeks, trying to make it stop.

Arthur leaned back and nodded once, curtly, decidedly. “All right. Come on, let’s go downstairs.” 

Merlin let Arthur usher him out of the room, until they were in the parlour and Merlin was sitting on the sofa with a blanket draped over his shoulders.

“Rest,” Arthur told him sternly, adjusting the blanket.

Merlin tried to offer him a smile. It didn’t work very well.

“I’ve been _resting_ all day,” Merlin argued, though that hadn’t been strictly true. He slumped as Arthur walked around the sofa. “I’m sorry. I should have been at the committee meeting.” 

“No, Merlin, it’s . . . It’s alright.” Arthur surveyed him as though checking for a wound. “Just don’t let it happen again.” There was no fire behind the order. Perhaps there had been earlier. Perhaps Arthur had wanted to scold Merlin for his selfishness, but he lost all heat now. 

He cleared his throat and knelt before Merlin, fitting himself between Merlin’s knees. “Feeling better?”

Merlin sheepishly tried to look at his lap without meeting Arthur’s gaze. “Yes.” It didn’t sound very convincing.

“You said you had a dream? Is that what this is all about?” Arthur shook his head, seeming spooked. “Was it the Crystals, Merlin? Was it a prophecy?”

“No,” Merlin said, shaking his head, trying to placate Arthur. However, it only seemed to frustrate Arthur more. He pinched his brow and opened his mouth, as though to argue. Merlin forestalled him by saying, “I told you, I think it’s Morgana’s doing. It was just a dream.”

Concern passed over Arthur’s expression. He looked almost as tired as Merlin felt. “Tell me,” he demanded, putting on a brave face.

Merlin told him about the deaths, the captivity, Morgana. He left himself completely out of it. It made guilt wash over him. It felt like lying, but he couldn’t tell the truth. What if it made Arthur suspicious of him? He’d been doing so well with embracing magic. Arthur had come such a long way. Merlin couldn’t take away Arthur’s faith. More than that, he couldn’t have Arthur look at him like a traitor, or like an adulterer. Merlin wasn’t sure which would hurt Arthur more. Arthur had too much experience with both.

If he knew, Merlin could drive him away forever. 

Arthur could never know.

The story left Arthur harried. He stared off, eyes wide, as he processed the information. “You’re _certain_ this isn’t a prophecy? It won’t come true?” he asked hurriedly, already working himself up. 

Merlin had to stop that before Arthur became inconsolable. “No! No, listen,” he said, placing a palm to Arthur’s cheek. “It will never come to pass. I won’t ever let that happen,” he promised—to Arthur, to himself.

Arthur closed his eyes for a pause. “ _We_ won’t,” he corrected, opening his eyes again and finding Merlin’s. At first, Merlin didn’t understand his meaning. “Whatever’s to come, we’ll face it together. The fate of the kingdom doesn’t rest on you alone, Merlin.”

Merlin wasn’t certain he believed it. Arthur needed his power to defeat Morgana, and Merlin felt sick in thinking he’d ever use his magic for Morgana’s gain. Still, the words loosened the knot in Merlin’s chest. His smile was genuine as he cupped his other hand to Arthur’s face. “That’s rich, coming from you.” 

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Shut up, Merlin.” He leaned into Merlin’s touch and kissed his wrist. “And you’d better be able to clean up our bedroom!”

Merlin thinned his lips apologetically. “I still haven’t found the source of Morgana’s spell,” he whispered. It was unlikely he’d find it that night, especially if it wasn’t in the bedroom. It could have been anywhere in house! He didn’t know what the source was, which meant he had no notion of how powerful it could be. 

Arthur sat back on his ankles thoughtfully. “How did she get it inside? I thought you protected the place.” There was a hint of accusation in his tone.

“I _did_!” Merlin defended. “She couldn’t have gotten in, not without us knowing.” It was a worrisome thought. 

Arthur’s jaw hardened. “Unless she has someone inside the city working for her, someone with access to the manor.”

Suspicion darkened the room. Merlin’s insides swam uneasily. “That’s just the knights and the staff.” The latter, perhaps. Merlin hated to think so. They all seemed like good people, but it wouldn’t be the first time the air of innocence deceived him.

“And the committee members,” Arthur bit out. He’d never believe it was one of them, but Merlin would. Nathara. Merlin was sure it was her. 

“And Sonia’s council,” Arthur said after a pause.

Merlin swallowed hard. The Druids were innocent. They must have been. “Arthur . . .” 

“I know,” Arthur said. “We mustn’t get ahead of ourselves. We’ll get to the bottom of this, Merlin, I promise. If there’s a traitor amongst us, we’ll find them. I’ll talk to the committee members tomorrow, see if they’ve been approached with any plots—or if their cabinet members had overheard anything suspicious in the provinces,” Arthur said, resolved. He stood up. “You spend the day searching for . . . whatever you think Morgana’s planted. Have Gaius help you. Take Lancelot, too, if you need an extra pair of hands.”

Merlin nodded slowly. His mind was buzzing with a thousand ideas, none of which he could hold on to for very long. There was too much ruckus. 

“Come to bed. You’re not very appealing with dark circles under your eyes. We’ll stay in one of the other rooms for now,” Arthur said, extending his hand to Merlin. “Let’s see if we can give you some good dreams tonight.”

Merlin flushed slightly. Selfishly, he wanted to take Arthur up on the offer. He wanted to rid himself of the phantom of Morgana’s touch. He wanted to feel Arthur’s. It would wash away all the bad memories.

But he couldn’t—not with the dream so fresh on his mind. It was wrong to subject Arthur to such filth. Merlin still felt too unclean.

As he grabbed Arthur’s hands and stood, letting the blanket fall off of him, he said, “Can you just lie with me? At least until I fall asleep?” That would give him good enough dreams, he hoped.

Arthur’s expression softened, and then he nodded. He led Merlin outside the parlour. 

Merlin went to one of spare bedrooms down the corridor from their own. The bed wasn’t as large, and nowhere near as comfortable, and Merlin shivered beneath the covers as he curled into a ball. Arthur joined him a few minutes later wearing his nightclothes. His sword was in hand, and he placed it at the ready next to his side of the bed.

He laid down on his side facing Merlin, and Merlin felt him hesitate before reaching out his hand and brushing his knuckles up and down Merlin’s arm. Merlin didn’t want any space between them, and he didn’t want Arthur to be uncertain in touching him. He rolled over into Arthur and folded his arms around his waist, clinging onto him for dear life. 

Slowly, Arthur’s arms encircled him.

Merlin pecked his lips, his cheeks, his nose in a dozen promises that he would never betray him.

“Merlin,” Arthur chortled between the kisses, and Merlin wanted to taste his laughter. “Rest. Get—some—sleep.” 

“Love—you. I—love—you. I love—love—you.”

“I’ll—love you—right now—if you don’t stop.”

But Merlin wasn’t the only one kissing anymore. He satisfied himself to one last long press, although it hardly satisfied him at all. Then, he nuzzled against Arthur’s chest and held him tight. 

“Get some sleep,” Arthur said again. “Let me watch out for you for once.”

Merlin fell asleep listening to Arthur’s heartbeat. It was his favourite sound in the world.

 

///

 

Lancelot, Gaius, and Merlin had turned the entire manor upside down searching for anything that might have been the source of Morgana’s curse. They began early in the morning, when the sun was only a red band on the horizon. It was nearly midday now, and they’d found nothing. 

Exhausted and famished, they took a break for lunch. Lancelot and Gaius made their way to the kitchen, with Merlin’s promise that he would join them shortly. However, an hour passed and he did not show.

It worried both of them, but Gaius distracted himself by leafing through a book of magic to find another solution to their problem. He would not give up, and Lancelot was glad for that. He had no intention of giving in, either, but he did not know how to move forward. With any luck, Gaius would come up with something.

Keeping hope alive, Lancelot left Gaius to his reading and went out in search of Merlin. His friend had barely said a word all day, and, when he did, his voice was low and haggard. Lancelot feared that Merlin had already given up. 

His fear grew tenfold when he found Merlin in his bedroom with his deck of tarot cards fanned out before him on the floor. Each card was face up and aligned meticulously. Lancelot did not pretend to understand what Merlin hoped to find in the cards, but Merlin did not touch them. He only stared, as if in a trance, and did not appear to notice Lancelot’s entrance. 

“Merlin?”

Merlin didn’t react. Lancelot crouched down on the other side of the semi-circle of cards and peered down at the desolate illustrations. His eyes were drawn to the Empress. 

“Some cards have natural pairs,” Merlin said suddenly. It surprised Lancelot at first, as some time had gone by since he entered the room and he hadn’t expected Merlin to speak. 

He pulled a face. “I don’t understand.”

“There are certain cards that balance each other out. They give each other meaning,” Merlin explained unblinkingly, and Lancelot tried to follow. “Even when one is pulled and the other isn’t, they’re still together. Always. One cannot exist without the other. The Emperor and Empress and one pair.”

He reached forward and, with the flat of his hand, pushed away all cards but the two cards at the centre of the spread.

“The Magician and the High Priestess are another.”

Lancelot thought he understood now. He sighed and hung his head. “Merlin—.”

As if he hadn’t heard, Merlin continued in the same toneless voice, “He represents action. He is the ability to use a skill. And she . . .” At last, he blinked. “She represents potential. Together, they’re a powerful force of creation. Or destruction.” 

“Is that what you’re worried about? Potential?” Lancelot asked. It seemed a strange thing to fret over. It was merely a concept, after all, and it was up to Merlin what he chose to do with his potential, the same way it was up to everyone else to choose.

“You know what I can do,” Merlin answered. “You’ve seen it.”

At once, Lancelot recalled the night at Maudsley Hospital, where Merlin had nearly killed Gwaine in a fit of rage. Lancelot had never been afraid of Merlin before that night. Quickly, he pushed the memory out of his mind. He did not believe that was truly the man Merlin was. He had a good heart. Lancelot had seen that, too, many times. 

“All I have ever seen is a man who does what he believes to be right in the name of justice and love. Because of that, you are the truest and best man I’ve ever known.”

Merlin shook his head through it, not accepting Lancelot words. But Lancelot hadn’t meant them for comfort or compliment. He meant them as fact. And yet, Merlin still rejected them.

“I had the dream again last night. The same one. And this isn’t the first dream I’ve had of joining with Morgana,” Merlin told him. “There have been more. And in each of them—,” he thinned his lips, preparing himself for the admission that came next, “I _liked_ the way it felt. I liked having that power.”

“I don’t believe it,” Lancelot said frankly. “You have never sought that kind of power for yourself. These are not your true thoughts, Merlin. They’re what Morgana wants you to think.”

“How can you say that? We haven’t found any proof of it!”

“We did not expect this to be easy. She is smart. She means to discourage us. But I am certain we’ll find something.”

Merlin chewed on the inside of his cheek, his eyes downcast to the two cards. Lancelot wanted to rip them to pieces, but he knew that wouldn’t do any good. They were merely pictures on paper, nothing more. If only Merlin knew that.

“I don’t think we will,” Merlin said. “It’s _me_ , Lancelot. Me. You’d change your mind about me if you knew some of the things I’ve done.”

There were tears in Merlin’s eyes now, and that only proved he wasn’t evil. Whatever regretful things he’d done, Lancelot was certain he did what he had to, that there was no other choice. The fact that he felt remorse for his actions at all showed that. 

“Then, tell me,” Lancelot said. “Tell me what you’ve done, Merlin, and you will see that my opinion of you can never be changed.” 

Merlin’s jaw squared, and his eyes went blunt as he met Lancelot’s. It was as if he’d taken Lancelot’s words as a challenge. 

“Dag isn’t the first dragon that’s been in my care,” he said. “There was another. Aithusa.” 

Lancelot wasn’t certain he wanted to hear the rest. By the haunted way Merlin said the dragon’s name, Lancelot was suddenly unsure he could keep his promise.

Merlin leaned in, not breaking eye contact. “Let me tell you the story of how she died.”

Lancelot braced himself. He told himself that, whatever Merlin was about to say, it couldn’t be so bad. However, Merlin was wearing the same dead expression as he did that night at Maudsley. 

Whatever the story was, Lancelot never got to hear it. Gaius walked in at that moment saying, “It appears there is no physical object tied to the curse, but I believe there may be another way to rid you of it, Merlin.”

Lancelot saw the exact moment the darkness passed from Merlin’s face. Merlin turned to Gaius, his old self again. “What is it?” he asked, not daring to hope.

Lancelot let out the breath trapped inside and turned his attention to Gaius, too.

“I have read about a Wiccan practice of cleansing a house of evil energy. It requires the burning of certain herbs.” 

Merlin nodded profusely, seeming familiar with the practice. “That’s a good idea!” 

“Do you really think it could work?” Lancelot prayed.

Gaius lifted one shoulder. “Well, it’s certainly worth a try. Merlin, where do you keep your magical herbs?”

“Kitchen.” Merlin sprang to his feet. It was the most animated Lancelot had seen him all day, which gave him hope that such a ritual might actually be powerful enough to ward off Morgana’s magic. “I’ll get some now!” Merlin raced from the room.

Lancelot stood up, too. He flapped out his hands and asked, “What can I do?” 

“In truth, nothing,” Gaius told him. “This process is a long one, especially in a house of this size. Perhaps it’s best if you left Merlin and I to it.”

Lancelot nodded, not at all slighted by it. He didn’t know anything about magical herbs, and would probably only get in the way. He felt quite useless all day, and thought he’d mostly been there for moral support. And, although he was curious to hear about what had happened to that other dragon, he thought better than to find out. It would do no good to drudge up such things in Merlin. And maybe Lancelot was even a little relieved to have not heard the story.

Still, he didn’t wish to leave Merlin’s side until he knew his friend was safe. Sensing this, Gaius put his hand on Lancelot’s shoulder and said, “I will look after him.”

Lancelot knew Merlin could be in no better hands. With that, he bade Gaius good luck and left the manor to go somewhere he might be of some practical use.

 

///

 

Arthur had spent most of the day training with the army. He thought it best to stay out of the manor, to let Merlin and Gaius do whatever magic they had to in order to combat Morgana’s spell.

If she’d even cast a spell. As far as Arthur knew, there was still no proof. 

When Lancelot had joined them on the training pitch midday, Arthur pulled him aside and asked after the goings on in the manor. Apparently, they hadn’t made much progress in finding the supposed source of Morgana’s curse. Lancelot told Arthur that Merlin and Gaius were attempting to cleanse the manor instead.

Arthur prayed it worked, and he prayed it didn’t. He didn’t know what was worse: thinking there was a traitor among them that allowed Morgana to so easily stride into their home, or the thought of Merlin’s vision being genuine. The former would be happening now, a danger to the present; the latter would be a black cloud over them, but Arthur was determined to ensure it never became a reality.

Regardless, he told Simmons, Darby, and the Commissioner of his suspicions of a traitor. He knew they, at least, were on his side. They told him they would be on the lookout, and Arthur was glad Wallace was put on the case. Where Merlin was concerned, Wallace would tirelessly check under ever rock until he found an answer. They needed his skills as an inspector now more than ever.

“I can’t understand why he’s so worked up over this one,” Arthur confided in Lancelot. To that, Lancelot looked to his shoes in a telling way. Arthur got the feeling there was more to the story than he’d been told. “Lancelot?” 

It took some convincing, but Lancelot finally admitted, “He thinks he’s going to betray you.”

Arthur demanded he elaborate, but Lancelot wouldn’t. 

Long after the soldiers and his knights left the pitch, Arthur remained. He practiced shooting a gun and sparring with a straw target until the sunlight was gone. He tried so hard to occupy his thoughts, but it did no good. Finally, with his breath fogging around him and the stars overhead, he made his way back home, a car and driver waiting for him.

The manor was fragrant with burnt herbs when he arrived, sweet betony and overwhelming holly. Arthur’s eyes watered as he got used to the scent. 

Ainsworth came into the foyer, looking harassed. “Forgive the smell, sire. I’ve been working for hours to rid the place of it. May I take your coat?” He didn’t wait for a response before helping Arthur out of the garment.

“Cold as hell out there, sire. I hear we’re to have snow tonight.” 

“Where’s Merlin?” Arthur asked, giving the room the once-over. Every sound of the manor was silent and muffled, like it was snowing already.

“In bed,” was the answer. 

“And Gaius?”

“He left earlier this evening, sire.”

Arthur thanked him and bid him goodnight, telling him not to worry about dinner, before going up the stairs. When he got to the bedroom, Merlin wasn’t in bed, as promised. He was sitting cross-legged on the edge of the carpet, tarot cards laid out before him. Above the spread, two cards rested face up—the magician and the high priestess. Arthur’s blood ran cold. He wondered if Merlin had placed the cards there on purpose or if he’d pulled them.

Arthur said his name, and Merlin inhaled sharply as though waking up. His eyes were wide and a little frantic when they swept to Arthur’s.

Arthur thought it best not to mention Merlin’s appearance, as he was sure Merlin already knew. “Anything?” he asked instead.

Merlin’s head dropped as he looked down again. “We couldn’t find the source of the magic anywhere.” 

Arthur insides roiled as he reconsidered which he hoped for it to be: Morgana or the Crystals. Suddenly, the future seemed too expansive. He tried to remind himself he didn’t believe in destiny.

“So, it’s not Morgana?” he said. There was no point in denial.

However, Merlin didn’t feel the same. He sniffed and shook his head furiously. “It has to be.”

“Does it? Maybe you misunderstood the vision. Maybe it’s not what you think—.”

“No, no,” Merlin was saying before Arthur had finished speaking. He was getting himself worked up again. His cheeks were turning red. “Not this one. It was pretty clear.”

Arthur scoffed, not understanding. “Why?” 

“It _can’t_ happen!” Merlin shouted, like he’d wanted nothing more than to scream all day. All his anger bubbled to the surface, making him short of breath. The suddenness of it made Arthur freeze momentarily. 

“Then, don’t let it,” Arthur said when he recovered.

Merlin blinked back angry tears and shook his head petulantly at the cards. Staying cooped up in the house like this was no good for him. Arthur wondered when the last time Merlin stepped outside had been.

“Come on,” Arthur said, making up his mind. He turned around, expecting Merlin to follow. 

However, Merlin remained. He looked up again and rattled his head with frustration. “What?”

“Come with me. You’re so convinced Morgana’s left some curse in our house? Let’s find out for sure. We’ll sleep somewhere else tonight.”

“Where?” 

Arthur rolled his eyes at Merlin’s reluctance. “Somewhere far from those,” he said, gesturing to the cards. He went to the bed, took the duvet and two pillows from it, and bundled them under his arms. Merlin watched him like _he_ was the mad one. 

“Are you coming or not?” Arthur challenged.

Merlin grumbled like it was one big ordeal, but stood up to follow. Arthur marched him down the stairs and through the house, glancing back every now and again to make sure Merlin was still following. It wasn’t until they were outside, in the back garden, that Merlin sighed, “Arthur, where are we going? It’s freezing!” 

Arthur continued on for the tree line. He wove through the darkness, dry trunks, and the dead bramble. The air was biting and damp, and he quickly regretted this charade. It didn’t matter. He was determined now to follow through.

When he found a spot he was happy with, he dropped the duvet and pillows on the forest floor. “Go find some wood for a fire,” he told Merlin.

Baffled, Merlin opened and closed his mouth a few times. His lips were turning blue and he was huddled in on himself for warmth. “ _What_? I’m not sleeping out here when we’ve got a perfectly warm—!”

“Fine! I’ll do it myself!”

Merlin gaped as Arthur pushed past him. Arthur paid him no mind and focused on the task at hand. He wasn’t exactly sure what wood was best for a fire, but he knew dry twigs and leaves were better kindling than live ones. God, he really hadn’t thought this through.

The woods around them rustled with life. An owl hooted from somewhere unseen but nearby, and nightingales replied. There was a distant growl from a magical creature somewhere far off. With any luck, Dag would keep the more dangerous creatures away.

When Arthur’s arms were laden, he brought the kindling back to their makeshift campsite and cleared a place to build a fire. Merlin had thrown the duvet over his shoulders and watched Arthur with a mixture of annoyance and submission.

“Will you at least light it?” Arthur said, gesturing to the campfire he was knelt besides.

Merlin hesitated. But then his eyes glowed, and the twigs and leaves burst into crackling flame. Arthur relaxed as the warmth of it hit his cheeks. He breathed a fog around him and warmed his palms.

There was quiet between them, nothing but the popping leaves and the sounds of the nighttime world.

Arthur broke it gently. “Do you remember when we used to go on hunting trips? No company, no knights. Just us.” He sniffed in the cold. The air was so thin around them, leaving ample space for memory. These were the same trees as the ones in Camelot, or at least their offspring, one thousand years later. “We spent days away from the city." 

“I don’t remember it ever being this cold,” Merlin complained. Beneath the covers, he rubbed the goose bumps from his arms.

Arthur regarded him up and down. The way the flickering fire danced on him was so different than the way it used to. Back then, Arthur only ever noticed the orange light. Now, he was all too aware of the shadows that came hand-in-hand with it.

He held up his hand to Merlin. “Come here.”

Merlin reluctantly obliged. Arthur took him by the wrist and pulled him down until they laid together on the ground, Merlin’s back to Arthur’s chest, the duvet tucked around them like a sleeping bag, and the pillows under their heads. Arthur was comfortable, save for the rock digging into his side. He was warm, even though Merlin was rattling cold.

Eventually, Merlin’s teeth stopped chattering. His body stopped rebelling, and he settled into Arthur like he was made to fit against him.

“Do you really think this will work?” he asked, staring at the fire. It had grown to a roar now.

Arthur sighed into his hair. Whether it worked or not wasn’t the point. “It doesn’t matter, Merlin.”

“How can you say that? If this is a prophecy—.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Arthur said again with more force. “I don’t care what Morgana’s filling your head with, or if it really is a vision from the Crystals. Are you planning on betraying me, Merlin?”

“How do you know about—?”

“ _Are_ you?”

“No!" 

“Then, don’t.” Arthur held him tighter, driving the point home. His ankle slipped in between Merlin’s. “It’s as simple as that. It doesn’t matter who or what’s responsible for these dreams, because this is something we can control.”

“And if we can’t?” 

Merlin had spent too long dealing with destiny. Arthur wouldn’t let him give up. 

“I know you’d never leave me. Not _my_ Merlin. And I’d never let you.” 

Merlin remained quiet for a moment. Hopefully, Arthur’s words were sinking in.

When he spoke again, his voice was thick. “You thought I’d betrayed you once . . . when I told you about my magic. You tried to send me away.”

Arthur closed his eyes and remembered that day. He hadn’t been thinking. He’d just been hurt, and he’d reacted. He’d spent nearly every moment of every day for a decade with Merlin, and suddenly thought he didn’t know the man in front of him at all. It had been a lot to process. It shook Arthur to the bone as he reassessed everything he’d thought to be true. But it had never been fear. Anger, yes, but not fear. Not really. 

“I never thought you betrayed me, Merlin,” he said. This conversation was long overdue. Arthur relished the openness between them now, something that wasn’t present in Camelot. They hid everything they’d wanted to say under snippy remarks and playful insults. Now, they were more honest, at least when it counted. Arthur thought it had started that day after Camlann. 

“I wondered why you didn’t,” he went on. “Magic destroyed my family. It killed my mother, and my father—not your fault, I know. And look what it’s done to Morgana. Its power even seduced Agravaine. I trusted people, and all of them took advantage of that once magic touched them. But then you came along, the supposedly greatest sorcerer who ever lived—,” he scoffed out something like a laugh, “and you were laundering my socks!” 

He thought he heard Merlin laugh, too, if only a little.

Encouraged, Arthur continued, “I couldn’t understand it. I tried to convince myself not to trust you. I thought you _must_ have been playing some game. But I never actually believed it.” 

Merlin turned around in his arms so they were face to face. Slowly, he said, “So . . . you were angry because I _didn’t_ betray you?”

It did sound a little ridiculous. “Well. When you put it like that . . .”

That time, Arthur was sure Merlin was laughing. His lips stretched into a grin that crinkled his eyes and puffed out hot breath onto Arthur cheeks. His body rumbled against Arthur’s stomach, and it was infectious.

Arthur felt Merlin’s arms wrap around him and lock together.

“My point is, I’m not worried about the future you saw, Merlin, trick or not, because I already know it won’t happen.” 

Merlin’s smile faded, but didn’t completely go away. He studied Arthur’s face in mystification. 

“I know _you_ , and I know myself—and I know nothing will come between us,” Arthur told him. “If anything tries to, we’ll find a way to overcome it.”

Merlin’s eyes were still flickering across his face when he whispered, “You really think it’s that easy to defy destiny?”

Arthur nodded. There was nothing for it. “I love you. That makes it easy.” 

It seemed that, for once, Merlin was at a loss for words.

“Besides,” Arthur added, the smile slipping back onto his lips, “for all your faults, you weren’t half bad at laundering my socks.” Merlin was chuckling in earnest now. “I’m serious! I just can’t lose you. I’d quickly end up without any clean—.” 

Merlin interrupted him with a hard kiss that Arthur responded to as quickly as the furling leaves had to the flames of the campfire. Merlin’s kisses held their usual hunger, like he wanted to keep the taste of Arthur on his tongue. His fingers latched onto Arthur’s hair and held the back of his neck like there’d be claw marks left behind if anyone tried to pull them apart. Merlin always kissed like it was a plea, begging Arthur to stay.

It heated Arthur up quickly.

When Merlin rolled on top of him, Arthur glided his hands up the back of Merlin’s shirt and explored the expanse of his back—every raised freckle, the dips and straight of his spine. Merlin shivered against him and broke the kiss to laugh, “Your hands are freezing! Coming out here was a terrible idea!”

Arthur had to admit, he had a point. 

“Come on, _Mer_ lin! Pretend it’s a hunting trip, like old times!” He brought one hand back up to rest it on Merlin’s cheek. Merlin turned into the touch and started nibbling on his thumb. Arthur watched him with rapt attention. “I’m sure there’s plenty of ways you imagined warming me up back then.”

Merlin said something, but it came out in a jumble around Arthur’s fingers.

Arthur raised a brow. “Well said.” 

Merlin laughed for the fourth time, and that must have been some kind of record. “I _said_ , I wanted to throw you into the campfire half the time.” 

“I’d like to see you try!” Arthur gasped, and threw his arms back around Merlin’s torso. He rolled them over, pressing his lips to Merlin’s in the process. Merlin rolled them again. His hand fit between them and reached down the front of Arthur’s trousers. Arthur’s breath hitched and he lifted himself into the touch.

He tried to grab hold of something as Merlin worked him slowly. His fingers slipped against the frozen soil and bunched up the duvet. So instead, he took hold of the back of Merlin’s neck and rubbed his fingers into the tense muscles. Merlin’s chest was beating quickly and rising and falling swiftly against his. Arthur moved away from his lips and left a trail on his cheeks, his chin, his ears—any bit of skin he could land on.

Merlin’s breaths were hot and panting, but Arthur wanted to hear him moan, like Arthur was moaning. He wanted to hear Merlin say his name.

He reached down, too, until he felt Merlin twitch against his fingers. At once, Merlin began working his hips into Arthur’s fist. Arthur’s mind was buzzing as quickly as his skin. A pressure inside of him both tensed and relaxed every muscle, and it kept building and building and begging for release. His body squirmed, desperate to let it out. 

Merlin was breathing his name now, low and rumbling. His full body rocked into Arthur’s fingers. When Arthur met his eyes, they were flickering between their normal blue and deep amber. His breath misted out of him, and a few stray snowflakes that managed to get through the spidery branches of the canopy lined his hair.

The building pulse spreading through Arthur’s body sunk and converged, and bloomed out again. He felt the rush as Merlin’s eyes turned a steady gold, and Arthur’s name echoed off the tree bark.

Arthur let himself relax against his pillow, too hot but comfortable beneath Merlin’s body still blanketing him. When he caught his breath, Merlin hummed happily and folded his arms over Arthur’s chest. He rested his chin on his wrists and grinned down at Arthur in a beaming, ear-to-ear sort of way that Arthur hadn’t seen in quite some time.

“Better?” Arthur teased.

Merlin nodded sleepily, and Arthur realised how tired he was, too.

“Better.”

“Me, too.”

Merlin’s face disappeared as he placed his cheek on Arthur’s chest. Arthur breathed in his hair and watched the fluffy chunks of snow drift down from the black sky. They tickled his face as they landed. 

They should have gone inside. Arthur understood that later, when they both ended up sick for two weeks. But it was worth it, to fall asleep with the smell of fire and winter and wood, to have Merlin draped around him. 

He wanted it to be a peaceful sleep. He wanted Merlin to dream only of him.


	11. Chapter 11

Winter’s frost was dwindling from Winchester. The morning dew no longer left ice on the lawns and the frigid whipping winds settled into a welcomed breeze that combed over the city. The first signs of life broke through the trees’ spidery branches, softening their spears. Flower buds grew, but did not dare blossom, not until the world was certain summer was truly on its way. 

It was the very beginning of spring, and nature was holding its breath in anticipation. It was a wish and a dream, crossed-fingers and awestricken eyes. 

It seemed the magic of the Old Religion flowing through Merlin was working in healing the earth. The waters ran clearer than they once had, the fields of the north were bright with new grassland, and the sunsets were painted blue and red rather than a kaleidoscope of unnatural colour. It was much warmer in this early April than Arthur recalled in the past few years. (Albeit, it was still much colder than it had been for the same time of year he remembered in Camelot, but at least progress was being made.) He had no doubt that, as spring marched forward, the trees would bud in vivacious colour and the citizens of Britain could eat their fruits without fear. 

Green wasn’t the only colour returning to Winchester. Over the last month, bright shades of red and gold began cropping up in the forms of banners and flags, tinsels and roses. The cathedral in particular was being decorated with immense care in preparation for the coronation. 

It would be in a weeks’ time, and already dignitaries and their cabinets, advisors, and military generals were pouring into the city for the festivities and banquets that would take place in the days before the ceremony. Matthew Donahue, the President of Ireland, was even set to arrive in a few days.

Arthur had met with him three weeks previous. There had always been less Neo activity in the Republic of Ireland than in Britain, and what little there was stayed in the north. The sea between the two islands had made it more difficult for Nigel Cryus to gain control of the country. But, with the Neos battling the British and their lands slowly shrinking, Arthur feared the population would grow in Ireland.

He met with Donahue in Dublin weeks ago, and something of a military alliance became of it. Donahue made it clear he had no desire of joining the union, but he promised to send Arthur aid in the war should they ever need it. Arthur, too, promised troops in Ireland to combat the Neo threat. 

He had offered to send soldiers immediately, to keep the Neos at bay, but Donahue rejected it. “Now is not the time,” he’d said. “We already have a Neo-Druid occupation. I don’t need my people to think the English are invading, too.” 

Although it was the bare minimum of an alliance, Arthur was glad to know they had some semblance of support from the Irish.

As committee members and their dignitaries continued to filter in, so did many others. Troupes of performers—circus acts and musicians and actors—filled the city looking for an audience. Street mimes and human statues lined the corners of the city centre. A fairground sprang up outside the city. Everything was bustling and buzzing in a way that reminded Arthur so much of what the city once looked like when it was called Camelot. It no longer set his heart to ache with nostalgia, but swelled him with a wave of happiness. He no longer felt mere glimpses of belonging on certain occasion, but a permanent sense of it. 

He was home. Sometimes, he still couldn’t believe it.

He stood atop the finished watchtower, but did not search for any threats. His men on the ground were doing a sufficient job with that task, ensuring the Neos weren’t lingering in the crowds and waiting for a time to strike. He was admiring the city, rebuilt and restored to its former glory, before him.

In the distance, a line of cars snaked into the city limits. Chancellor Brown and his people were finally there, having been the last of the committee to arrive. Arthur could just make out the miniature Exeter flags beating wildly against the cars’ windows. His fists tightened against the railing and he leaned into it slightly in attempt to find Brown’s silhouette in one of the cars.

Behind him, the tower’s door opened with a careless bang. Arthur looked over his shoulder at the newcomer, and the tension in his body instantly relaxed. He knew Brown’s arrival wasn’t causing his stress, although Arthur’s blood pressure did rise significantly whenever the man was in the room. Ever since the first coronation decoration was hung, Arthur, like nature, had been holding his breath.

But not as much as the man who was now settling at his side. Merlin had been holding his breath for fifteen hundred years, and Arthur would ensure he would soon breathe easy again.

“Look who finally decided to show up,” Merlin said, crossing his arms and nodding his chin towards Brown’s motorcade.

Arthur sighed through his nose and turned in the direction of the scene. “Better late than never,” he said, rolling his eyes. “I suppose we should be happy he even showed up at all.”

“Happy,” Merlin scoffed, and then considered, “He was always coming. He just likes to make people wait. Makes him think he’s got all the power.”

Arthur raised a brow at him. For a moment, he almost felt guilty about the thought that popped into his head. It was a rather childish, vindictive thought. Although, he supposed he wasn’t quite king yet, so he might as well get the urge out of his system while he still could.

“Of course, there’s no harm in reminding him who really holds the power in this city.”

Merlin’s expression remained neutral, and his gaze didn’t shift from the cars. But Arthur understood that, somewhere, Merlin knew that Arthur was acting immature; just as Arthur knew the more dominant part of Merlin was more vindictive than he was.

“ _Dagnija_ ,” Merlin spoke. He did so at a normal volume, but his voice was commanding enough to make mountains and seas exchange places.

There was a moment where nothing happened. The only sounds were the shouts and laughter filtering up from the streets below and the soft breeze in Arthur’s hair. And then the wind picked up, bringing with it the sound of powerful wings beating against the sky.

As if out of nowhere, a shadow was cast over the city from the top of the tower, where Dagnija had dug her talons into the roof shingles. She had grown to the size and mass of the bush elephant of her ancestral homeland, with tusks just as long and sharp. Arthur couldn’t say if she was done growing, but she was still young and he thought not. 

From below came an explosion of applause and cheering, as the dragon was a show more impressive than any of the performers’ acts and plays. Dagnija stood on her hind legs and roared fire up to the clouds to delight the masses further. It delighted Arthur, too, despite the onslaught of light and heat that made him turn away.

Brown’s motorcade had slowed, which twisted Arthur’s chest with glee that he would never admit to, and knew he had to cut out. “Alright, enough,” he chuckled, but didn’t know who it was directed to: Dagnija, still entertaining the masses; himself, still loving it; or Merlin, who was wearing a pleased grin that softened the feeling in Arthur’s chest very quickly.

“Careful, Merlin. You look a bit too happy,” he said coolly, not giving away the rush it brought him.

Merlin folded his arms behind his back and shrugged. “I am,” he answered simply.

“Good. We’ve achieved the impossible.” 

“More improbable, really." 

Merlin met his gaze with wide, sunlit eyes and an expression that didn’t need to be a smile to be bright. All the greens and reds and golds were dull in comparison. 

_Improbable_. That was certainly the best word to describe Merlin.

That night, there was dancing. Guildhall was so packed that the celebration eventually spilled into the street outside and filled the roundabout. Fairy lights were strung from the streetlamps and a band played beneath the statue of King Alfred. They were currently strumming a slow song that Arthur thought he recognised, but couldn’t quite place. 

_Wild horses couldn’t drag me away.  
_ _Wild, wild horsed couldn’t drag me away._

Arthur strolled through the partygoers, most of them bowing their heads as he passed while the more inebriated ones hollered his name. He saw Simmons and Darby mingling next to the bar stand. They met his eyes from afar, and both stopped their conversation to raise their glasses to him. He nodded gratefully in return.

Percival and Gwaine were on their knees rolling die at the edge of the makeshift dance floor. A group had formed around them, yelling or jeering every time a dice was thrown. Arthur’s eyes wandered up to the dancers, where he found Gwen and Lancelot swaying gently against each other amongst the other couples. Arthur wondered if he’d be jealous had this been another night in another time, but all he felt at the moment was a soft kind of gladness for them. For her. 

Gwen’s happiness was too great to hold in her chest, so her smile carried it as she gazed up at Lancelot.

Something seized Arthur by the wrist, and he almost thought it a danger until he heard the laughter that followed. It was a sound that had once been so familiar, and its presence had increasingly become more rare with each passing year. Arthur thought he could count the days since he’d last heard it, but the number didn’t matter. It had come back in these recent weeks, and it was a welcomed gift. 

Merlin swung in front of him, all clumsy arms and stumbling legs. “Thought I’d find you standing alone in silence.”

Arthur snorted. Usually, the scent on Merlin’s breath was accompanied by brooding. This was a happy change. “I was thinking. Ever heard of it?”

“Life of the party, you are, sire.”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Is Gwaine responsible for this?” 

“C’mon,” Merlin urged, tightening his grip on Arthur’s wrist and pulling him forward. “Time to join the celebration. You _know_ it’s for you, right?” 

“Where are you taking me?” He thought he already knew the answer, and he needed a lot more drinks before he attempted anything remotely close to it. 

“Don’t want to dance with your husband?”

Arthur had been afraid of that. “Depends. Will I be as drunk as him?”

They’d pushed halfway to the statue when Merlin stopped and swivelled back around. “Drunk on _love_ ,” he slurred like he knew how ridiculous it sounded. He cupped Arthur’s free hand and lifted it up, and placed his other on Arthur’s hip. Arthur froze. He’d never danced with Merlin before.

“I know you know how to, dollophead,” Merlin huffed. He took Arthur’s wrist again and guided his hand to the proper place. “I’ve seen you dance with plenty of people.”

“Jealous of them, were you?” 

“No. You have two left feet.” 

Arthur gasped in a mockery of offense, but Merlin began swaying before he could make a retort. Arthur followed his lead. 

He found dancing with Merlin was easier than he’d thought. He’d been accustomed to Merlin’s close proximity even in the days of Camelot. They always had walked in sync with each other, always hovering too close. Arthur had known the rhythm of Merlin’s movements for a long time, but didn’t notice until that moment that his own body had adopted the same patterns.

Merlin breathed in at the same moment Arthur breathed out.

“See? Not so hard to enjoy yourself,” he teased.

“These celebrations aren’t really for me, Merlin,” Arthur told him. “They’re to keep the visiting dignitaries entertained. There’s still work to be done before I’m crowned.”

“And those tasks will still be there tomorrow.”

“Exactly my point.” 

Merlin chuckled deeply and pulled Arthur closer as though he planned to never let go. “Just . . . dance with me—at least for one song.”

For the first time that night, Arthur noticed something lingering behind Merlin’s smile. He should have seen it before. It was always there, even at times when everything seemed to be going right. It was something Arthur would never accept he couldn’t fix.

One song was so fleeting, as fleeting as one lifetime.

Arthur rested his cheek against Merlin’s. “There will be plenty of songs, Merlin,” he promised into his hair.

He closed his eyes, blocking out everything but Merlin rocking with him.

“Even the sad ones?” Merlin whispered heavily.

Arthur didn’t know how to answer. He wanted to say yes, especially those, but instead said with determination, “There won’t be any. Not if I can help it.” 

He felt Merlin sigh. “Shame.” Merlin’s fingers tightened around his. “Those are the ones that are always worth it.”

The song was on its last notes, and Arthur didn’t want it to end. He had the strange feeling in his gut that the tone was about to shift, and a lively song would be next. He wanted this song to play over and over, to stay tucked away in this place where reality was kinder than he knew it to be.

 

///

 

Mordred made his way to the throne room, knowing Morgana would be there with the war council. They were making the last bit of preparation before marching on London. Planning for the attack had taken weeks, but at last, tomorrow was the day. And it couldn’t have come at a better time. Arthur was to be crowned king in a week. They would ensure such a thing never came to be. 

However, Mordred wasn’t looking for Morgana at the moment. Where she went, so did her bodyguard. Just as Mordred had expected, Malcolm stood watch outside the doors of the throne room, his posture straight and his hand resting on the gun on his hip as though danger lurked right around the corner. 

When he saw Mordred, he reached for the door handle to grant him access, but Mordred stopped him.

“Don’t. I haven’t come to see the queen.”

Malcolm straightened out and gave Mordred a curious look. “Sir?”

“I’ve come to speak with you,” Mordred told him plainly. He settled in front of Malcolm so they could speak in whispers as to not be overheard. As though already conspiring, Malcolm glanced up and down the corridor to make sure they were alone. Mordred had chosen him well. 

“No doubt you’ve taken notice of the queen’s,” he fished for the right word, but finally settled on the most direct, though it disconcerted him, “obsession.” It was a horrid word, but the truth nonetheless.

Malcolm wasn’t comfortable with it, either, but he agreed. “I have. It keeps her up at night.” 

“Then, it is worse than I thought. She believes she can sway Emrys into becoming our ally.” 

Apparently, Malcolm didn’t know this. His face skewed into an expression of horror and disbelief. “You’re joking.” 

Mordred shook his head. “I wish I were.”

“You have to convince her it’s a bad idea. You and Morgause—.” 

“It was Morgause’s idea in the first place. She is leading Morgana down this path.” 

Malcolm leaned against the wall, knowing there was no hope in convincing Morgana against this. He steeled himself, and nodded once in a stern way. “Then, we have to trust her. She must know what she’s doing.” 

Mordred commended his loyalty to Morgana, but he wouldn’t accept the plan. It was bound to lead to disaster. Still, he couldn’t have Malcolm questioning Morgana’s ability to lead. If he allowed such an attitude to spread, they would lose their army.

“Of course,” Mordred said in faux agreement. “But I fear we must take precautions should her plan go wrong. Our enemy is cunning, after all.”

Malcolm stood to attention again, ready for his orders. Finally, Mordred came to the reason he’d sought Malcolm out.

“Should Emrys’ threat become too great, we must kill him.”

It was clear that Malcolm felt the same, but he shook his head in dismay and said, “But I thought nothing could kill him?”

“Almost nothing,” Mordred corrected. “There is one thing: A blade forged in dragon’s fire.”

“Arthur’s sword?” Malcolm let out a laugh. Then, he corrected himself and tentatively, warily, asked, “You’re not suggesting we steal Arthur’s sword?” He was probably thinking Mordred was as mad as Morgana. 

“No, of course not!” 

Malcolm looked relieved, and Mordred continued, “Arthur’s sword is not the only one forged in dragon’s breath. There is one other. It was the blade that killed Arthur in Camlann. _My_ sword. I died with it in my fist.”

Malcolm’s eyes had gone wide in reverence and excitement. “Can I see it?” 

Mordred withered. “I don’t have it. The sword was lost after I died. I don’t know what happened to it.” 

Immediately, the look in Malcolm’s eyes dwindled back into haplessness. “That was thousands of years ago. You can’t expect us to find it. It might not even exist anymore.”

But Mordred did expect it. He had no doubt the sword was still whole. Nothing could destroy it, not even time. The magic inside it was as immortal as Emrys. What was a thousand years to the Old Religion? A blink of the eye.

“We found the Cup of Life, did we not?” Mordred reminded him. “We will find this, too. I want you to put your best men on the search. They must be discrete. We can’t let rumour of this reach the provinces, or else Arthur will search for the sword, too.”

Malcolm nodded his understanding. 

“And, Malcolm,” Mordred finished, giving him a severe look. The man was taller than him, but somehow he appeared to shrink under Mordred’s eyes. “Not a word of this to Morgana—or the Lady Morgause. This is for their own protection, but they will see our actions as treason.” 

It was treason, Mordred reasoned, but with the best intent. He had no intention of waiting for Merlin to strike while Morgana pursued this impossible task. He meant to kill Merlin the first chance he got. 

But Malcolm didn’t need to know that.

“Yes, sir,” Malcolm said with a nod.

Mordred stepped back. “Good man. Go now. There’s no time to lose. I will watch over the queen while you choose your men.”

Malcolm gave him another nod and started down the corridor.

 

///

 

Upon the Commissioner’s arrival, he had brought a gift from London that surprised everyone who caught word of it, Merlin included. A crown. A very old crown that Arthur was to receive at his coronation. Immediately, it was locked in the most secure vault of the bank until that day arrived.

However, Merlin apparently couldn’t wait that long. He made Wallace deliver the crown to the manor with the promise that he would return it in a few hours. Arthur had protested, but his heart wasn’t in it and he quickly gave in. He wouldn’t admit it aloud, but he was curious to see the sudden talk of the town, and excited to hold his new crown in his hands. 

But when they brought the crown to their bedroom and he pulled it from his casing, he wasn’t sure it was very _him_. 

“God, is this it?” Arthur said, curling his nose at the sheer grandeur of it. Thousands of white diamonds and dozens of other precious gems glinted blindingly as they hit the light of the lamp. Arthur could practically see his reflection in the Black Prince’s Ruby in the centre of it all. If the sun were out, the red colour would have probably painted a pattern on the walls. 

“Are you going to complain about your coronation crown now?” Merlin reproved, and Arthur realised he probably shouldn’t have turned his nose up at it.

His old crown had been much simpler, plain and gold and sturdy. Sometimes the physical weight of it made it hard to hold his head up, but it had been nothing compared to the metaphorical weight. He sighed, wondering if this fancy crown worn by so many others before him would prove to be heavier.

“I can’t believe they salvaged this,” Merlin said, leaning over Arthur’s shoulder to get a better look at the Imperial Crown in all its glory. “Everyone thought it’d been lost during the War.” 

“Yes, well, the jewels in it could probably put the country’s economy back on track,” Arthur mused, and for a moment he wondered what would happen if he actually did take the crown apart and distribute its wealth to the people. Would they love him or hate him for destroying centuries of tradition so their children could eat?

If Merlin were thinking it, too, he didn’t give it away. He was still too blissful as he gawked at the crown. He ran the tip his finger along the giant diamond at the base. “That’s the Second Star of Africa! Look at that!” His eyes were almost as big as it.

“Stop acting like a girl, Merlin,” Arthur groaned. He decided there was nothing for it. He placed the crown on his head and spun around to face Merlin.

Merlin’s breath caught as he took in the sight, but Arthur didn’t mention it, though it did cause a rush of smugness.

“How does it look?” he asked vainly, a smile painting his lips. Despite its weight, it was much more comfortable than his old crown had been. Uther had taught him that the crown was meant to be uncomfortable, to serve as reminder to the struggles of the kingdom. But Arthur had to admit, the contrast was . . . nice. 

Instead of the hard press of cold metal, this crown was soft and velvety plush. It wasn’t too tight as to cause a headache, or loose enough to slip. It fit perfectly. For centuries, countless monarchs had worn the crown, and yet it was as though it were made for him.

Now that the initial shock had died away, Merlin mustered his expression into nonchalance and shrugged. “Not bad. Not sure purple’s your colour, but I think I like it better than the last one.”

Just because Arthur had a new toy didn’t mean he’d forgotten the reliability of his old one. He couldn’t help but to be slighted by the remark. “Why’s that?” 

“It made your forehead look big.” 

And now Arthur was just downright offended. “It did _not_!”

“Whatever you say, Your Majesty.” 

Arthur dropped his shoulders in defeat. “You know, _Mer_ lin, insulting the king is treason.”

Merlin skewed his face into insolent disagreement and snorted out a laugh. “No, it’s _not_! Not anymore!” 

“Well, it should be,” Arthur conceded. 

Merlin tutted and shook his head. “See? Power’s already going to your head and you’re not even officially king yet.” 

“Shut up, Merlin.” 

Arthur crossed to the mirror to take a gander at himself in the crown. He didn’t admit it, but Merlin had been right: the base of the crown covered half his forehead, where his last one pushed back his fringe. He thought he could get used to this new look. 

Smirking, he wondered how Merlin’s crown was coming along. Unfortunately, there was no royal jewel preserved for him, but a new one was being made. Arthur kept the thought to himself, knowing Merlin would only bemoan the very mention of it. 

Arthur lifted the crown off his head and held it gently between his hands. He was suddenly aware of the significance it held—traditionally, presently, and in the future. His predecessors had worn it; he would wear it; his children and children’s children would wear it one day. It deserved safekeeping.

“Alright, that’s enough,” he said with finality. “You’ve had your fun, Merlin, now it’s time to take it back to the vaults.” 

Merlin practically stamped his foot like a petulant child. “What? What for?” he whined.

“It should be in safe hands until I’m crowned,” Arthur reasoned. “We told the guards we’d bring it back.”

“Yeah, but _tonight_? It’s late! They’ll understand if we kept it for _one_ night.” Merlin stepped forward, closing the space between them. He gingerly took the crown from Arthur and placed it back on his head. A soft smile lit Merlin’s face, and Arthur couldn’t peel his eyes from it. 

He looked so content.

“Come on, Arthur, just for tonight,” he nearly begged. He dropped his hand and wrapped his fingers around Arthur’s wrist. “For me.”

Arthur rolled his eyes again, not knowing why Merlin was making such a big deal of it. It wasn’t like he’d never see Arthur in the crown again. “ _Why_ , Merlin? What the hell’s gotten into you?”

Merlin put on a mock-scolding face. “Hey! I’ve waited a long time to see you in that crown!”

“Oh, so, my only purpose is to be something for _you_ took look at?” Arthur teased. But then Merlin leaned in for a hard kiss. His fingers roamed up Arthur’s neck, stopping at the base of the crown to fondle its ermine border. The unexpectedness of it knocked Arthur into a daze. His arms moved on their own accord, wrapping around Merlin’s frame and crashing his body in close. Merlin moaned into Arthur’s mouth. He sucked on Arthur’s bottom lip before leaning away.

“Not your _only_ purpose,” he said. Arthur’s vision went hazy as he looked at the bruise on Merlin’s lips. His skin was already prickling and something was stirring inside of him.

“Clothes off,” Merlin ordered. As he stepped out of Arthur arms, his eyes travelled upwards and rested on the crown. He indicated it with his chin and said, “Leave that on.”

 

///

 

It was past midnight when Ainsworth awoke them with news from the watch. Cenred had been found attempting to get into the city, and demanded an urgent audience with the king. They made for Guildhall immediately, where all the other heads of state and their cabinets were already gathered.

“Have you seen him? What does he want?” Arthur asked Gwen when she and Lancelot arrived. Merlin leaned in to hear her answer, but she only shook her head.

“I know as much as you do.” 

Merlin met Arthur’s eyes in a silent exchange. There could be only one reason Cenred risked himself to come to Winchester: Morgana was planning something. So close to the coronation, the provinces had been on high alert. They suspected the Neos would try something, but they didn’t know what or where. 

“The patrols haven’t reported any suspicious activity near the city,” Leon reported. “Morgana wouldn’t dare be so brazen as to attack Winchester so close to your crowning.” 

“She would be exactly that brazen,” Arthur answered. Merlin wasn’t so sure. Morgana wasn’t stupid. Winchester would not be her target, not yet. 

With everyone gathered, Arthur told Leon to send Cenred in. 

A rush of silence swept over the room. Merlin braced himself for disaster to strike. From the state Cenred was in, it was clear he rode all the way to Winchester without stopping. He wore a grave expression as his dark eyes searched every face in the room. 

Next to Merlin, Arthur squared himself and locked his gaze on Cenred. The guards on Cenred’s sides stopped him metres from where Arthur was standing.

“Do you treat all your friends with such suspicion? Perhaps I should have held you to the same standard when you were in my lands,” Cenred questioned, indicating his escorts.

Arthur ignored the slight. “I’m told you have important information about Morgana.”

Cenred answered at once, “Indeed, I do. I bring news of your sister’s plot. You know of the weapon she’s uses against civilians already.”

Arthur nodded, prompting Cenred to continue.

“She has tested the spell in many towns and villages.” It was nothing they didn’t already know. “Recently, the decimation it brings reaches many miles and kills anyone in its path.”

“I’ve seen the damage she has caused,” Arthur said.

“And you’ve never wondered why, each time, the damages worsen?” 

Merlin had, in fact, and so had Arthur. It seemed that every time the bomb was set off, it was stronger than the last. Merlin often wondered how Morgana was doing it. 

“Morgana is very powerful. She’s perfected her spell,” Arthur assumed.

“It is not just a spell,” Cenred hastily said. “As her army grows, so does the weapon’s power. It is not her magic alone feeding its strength.”

The truth dawned on Merlin. He looked at Gaius, who appeared to have the same revelation. 

“Her followers are offering their magic to the weapon,” Gaius said, confirming Merlin’s thoughts. Arthur swayed a little upon hearing it.

“Yes,” Cenred answered, “and her army is larger than ever. She believes the weapon is strong enough now to wipe out an entire city. She plans to use it on Winchester.”

Merlin’s blood ran cold as he remembered his vision of Arthur lying dead. He closed his eyes, trying to recall every detail of it—the city it had taken place in, the time of day, the time of year. He only saw a nondescript rooftop. 

Cenred continued, “She means to test it first, to ensure it is ready for Winchester. London is her target. She and her troops are making preparations to leave York as we speak. She will be there by midday tomorrow, and she means for all of her troops to converge on the city.” 

Arthur didn’t miss a beat. He turned to the Commissioner, whose eyes had gone round and whose face appeared in three shades of red. “Commissioner, have your nephew send word to London immediately.” Commissioner Wallace leaned into one of his men and whispered something. The man rushed from the room. 

“Why have you only come to us with this tonight?” Gwen asked sceptically.

Cenred’s eyes turned to her. “It is not easy slipping away from York, my lady. I came as soon as the opportunity presented itself. In the preparation, my absence is unnoticed, and I could not forgo the chance to tell you of this.” Merlin knew the danger of Morgana’s weapon, and the millions of inhabitants of London weren’t Cenred’s main reason for telling them of the plot. He had something to gain from this.

“We thank you for taking such a risk,” Arthur said, accepting the time constraints for what they were. “You will be saving millions of lives by giving us any information you know.”

“And I will be happy to give it. I know the route they will be marching to London. If you amass your army quickly, you will be able to cut them off before they reach the city,” said Cenred. “But the information will come at a price.”

Merlin chewed on his cheek. He knew Cenred was after something.

“A price?” Simmons yelled, furious. “How dare you! We’re talking about people’s lives—.” 

Arthur held up a hand for order. Simmons didn’t understand the way Cenred’s mind worked. That is to say, she did not know what drove a medieval king. Arthur did. He said, “Name it.”

“Morgause will be there. She is a High Priestess, and your sword is the only thing that can kill her. I don’t want her to see another sunset.”

Arthur’s gaze remained level. Merlin didn’t have to tell him that wasn’t the way the world worked anymore. He could not alone be judge, jury, and executioner. Search and kill missions were only under certain circumstances, and the committee would need time to determine a course of action should they choose to go through with it.

Merlin’s blood boiled at the idea of it, but he stayed himself. World order or not, he’d happily kill Morgause if it meant getting to Morgana. Arthur’s hands may have been tied by the law, but his were not.

_But they are now_ , Merlin heard Kilgharrah’s voice say in his head. His eyes caught a glimpse of the dragon in the far corner of the room. _How can you expect to protect Arthur as his consort?_

Merlin brought his attention back to the proceedings, trying to focus.

“Is that all?” Arthur said.

“No. I also wish for my people to be represented on your committee,” Cenred demanded. 

Arthur turned to his colleagues, giving them an exasperated look. Merlin knew he hated being unable to make decisions without their approval, but Arthur bore the consequences. 

“If and when the Neo-Druid’s Territory should become part of the provinces, I assure you they will have a representative on my committee. For that to happen, we need you to help us win this war against Morgana.” 

Cenred appeared satisfied in knowing he was crucial to their victory, which is what Arthur must have intended. He stood tall and said, “They will follow the A1 motorway into London. And there is more. For the weapon to have the most impact, Morgana must set it off at the highest elevation available. Find the tallest building, and you will find her and her sister.”

Arthur nodded in understanding and waved to the guards. “Take him to the outer limits of the city and insure he has means to return to York.”

Cenred started, as though he had no intention of returning to Morgana. “I can help.”

“You’re of more help to us in York,” Arthur brushed him off. “Continue to provide us with more information such as this, and your people will have a leader in my court in almost no time.” He gave Cenred a tight smile, and Cenred knew he was bested. 

Merlin had to bite down on a smirk.

Cenred nodded once, and the guards led him out of the hall. However, before they reached the doors, he turned with a darkened face and said, “Arthur, remember our agreement. Kill the bitch.” 

After the doors were closed behind Cenred, Arthur beckoned, “Leon, bring a map from my office.” Leon did as he was bid, and the others made for the room adjacent to the hall, where a long conference table stood. The many chairs aligned on both sides remained tucked perfectly in their positions as every leader of state and their council hovered around Arthur. Merlin managed to elbow his way to stand next to him.

Leon returned, and Arthur spread the map of Britain before him.

“I think Cenred may have been right,” he said, his gaze pouring over the map as he looked for something in particular. “If we move fast enough, we can find a way to cut the Neos off before they reach the city.”

“Cenred said they’d be there by midday,” Darby interjected. “We won’t be able to mobilize our troops until at least the morning. Morgana will have one hell of a head start.” 

“But Winchester is closer to London than York is.” It was Simmons that time.

“But we’ll have to march north of London to meet her. We won’t be able to stop her very far from the city. By the time we reach her, she’ll be in the dormitory towns, without question.”

A thick knot settled into Merlin’s chest at the thought of meeting Morgana in a town, especially when he thought back to that rooftop in his dream of Arthur’s death. Cenred had said she’d be seeking the highest building. That roof could have been it.

“If we can even take his word for it,” Chancellor Brown scoffed. “How do we know he’s telling us the truth? I don’t trust him.”

“Right now, his word is all we have to go by. I won’t risk lives because Cenred may not have told us the whole truth,” Arthur said pointedly. He sighed, “I don’t want to risk lives at all. I _do_ want to avoid the towns for the battle, if possible. Commissioner, is there a field we can draw her towards?”

The Commissioner pushed forwards to look at the map. “Not a large enough space on her route.” 

“What if we diverge her?” 

“Sire, I wouldn’t recommend that,” Leon advised. “We know her route for certain. If we attempt cause a divergence, we may not be able to control it. There’s no telling where she may go, and if we can lead her.”

“If we do that, she could march through communities,” Gaius agreed, “which could lead to unforeseen bloodshed of innocent people. If we know where we’re to meet her, we may be able to keep the destruction to a minimum.” 

Arthur pressed both palms on the table and leaned into them. His shoulders were tense and the line of his spine was rigid as he stared down at the map before him. He stared for so long that Merlin wondered if the lines and curves of the map were swimming and blurring in his vision, or if he was even seeing them at all. But he knew Arthur couldn’t think on it for too long. He had to go with his instincts. Everyone was waiting.

Arthur knew this, too. The weight of it—the battle, so many lives—rested on his decision. If Merlin could take that burden from him, he would. But he couldn’t; so instead, he let his hand fall to the table. Secretly, he flattened his palm on the laminated wood and brushed the side of his hand against Arthur’s.

It must have grounded Arthur, because the spell passed. He removed his hand and jammed his finger into a point on the map along the A1.

“This town. What is it?” 

Everyone leaned in closer. 

“Welwyn. It’s a civil parish along the River Mimram,” said the Commissioner. 

“What’s the highest point?”

The Commissioner stammered, not knowing the answer.

“There’s a church,” came a voice from the door. It had an American accent. Merlin didn’t need to look over his shoulder to know Wallace was striding into the room. “Sorry I’m late. Had to dispatch a messenger.”

“Do you think Morgana will find it suitable enough to make her stand?” Arthur asked as the group parted to let Wallace through. 

Wallace shrugged down at the map. “Town’s big enough.” 

Arthur nodded. “Then, that’s where we meet her. Percival, Elyan, take a hundred soldiers and ride for Welwyn immediately. I want it cleared of all civilians by the time the battle commences.”

They both bowed their heads gently and hasted from the room. 

“Leon?” 

“Sire.” 

“Send word to our troops stationed in the London Province. Tell them to split their ranks, half to Welwyn and the other half to remain at their posts. Have them secure their charges should the Neos have troops coming from different routes.”

Leon left, too. As he did, Chancellor Brown stepped back in and said, “What strategy do you suggest for taking them down? They have a weapon that can kill us all in one go, but so far we have nothing to kill them.” 

Out of the corner of his eyes, Merlin thought he saw Simmons and Darby share a look.

“I do,” Arthur reminded him tersely. To prove his point, he unsheathed the sword on his belt and laid it on the table over the map. Brown jumped away from it like he’d expected Arthur to run him through. “I may not be able to take out every Neo-Druid with it, but I can take out their leader.”

Merlin had to reel in his reaction before it escaped him in a cry. The air shuddered as he drew it in, and his eyes flickered to Gaius. Gaius gave him an equally concerned looked, but he was better at hiding it. And then, Merlin’s eyes strayed to Lancelot. 

“All I need is the time to get to her. As the battle begins, I will make for Morgana, subdue her, and bring her in for justice.”

He must have known Morgana would sooner die than let herself be imprisoned. But Arthur wouldn’t kill her. He didn’t have it in him. Morgana didn’t have the same qualms. If he allowed himself to hesitate, she would have her victory.

Merlin would see she failed. He’d kill Morgana himself. Again.

“What about Morgause?” asked Simmons. “You can’t seriously give in to Cenred’s demands.”

“Not unless I have to,” Arthur promised. “Once we have them both, the committee will decide what to do with them.”

“I say kill them the first chance you get,” Brown spoke out. For once, Merlin agreed with him.

“Yes, we know your vote, Chancellor,” Simmons droned.

“Arthur,” Gwen said, a certain inflection in her tone that said she had an idea. Merlin settled himself, praying Gwen’s voice of reason wouldn’t fail them now. She continued, “Needless to say, even if you do capture Morgana and Morgause, many of our soldiers will fall to the Neos. If we can, I think we should keeps those numbers as low as possible.”

“What do you suggest?” 

“We use magic.” Suddenly, it was as though every heart and all breath stopped as one. Gwen didn’t let it hinder her. “We’ve had many talks with the Druids. I believe it is time our relationship with them came to fruition.”

“The Druids? Ha!” Brown bit out. “If we give them weapons, they’ll only end up shooting us in the back!”

Merlin wanted to take back his previous concession with him, just so he could claim he’d never agreed with a word Brown said in his life. He wanted to throw him across the table for putting such ideas in Arthur’s head.

But then Arthur said curtly, “The Druids are friends to Winchester.”

“To Winchester! Not to Britain! The soldiers of Exeter will not fight alongside them.”

From the edge of the crowd, Gwaine cleared his throat, lifted his chin, and said, “See, thing about the Exeter soldiers is, they’re British soldiers now. They fight for all of us. And I’ve spent enough time with them to know most of them are happy that way.” His steadfast gaze moved to Arthur, as if looking for approval. Arthur beat back a smirk as he met Gwaine’s eyes. 

“And, all things considered,” the Commissioner put in, “it is not Exeter under attack. It’s London. Shouldn’t it be _my_ decision on whether or not we align ourselves with the Druids?”

“Yes, it is,” Arthur agreed. “And what is your decision?”

The Commissioner took a moment to look back at his officers, but he wasn’t really asking their opinion. His attention rested on his nephew, who nodded slightly in support. The Commissioner turned back to Arthur and said, “My king trusts them. So, I trust them, too. Let’s get all the help we can.”

Merlin didn’t know how to begin processing the emotions swelling in his heart. He thought such intense feeling would come only upon seeing Arthur with a crown adorning his head, but he realised now the crown was only a symbol. This was real. The Commissioner’s faith in Arthur, the committee’s trust in him to lead the country. Arthur was already a king to them. The coronation was merely a ritual.

But it wasn’t to Morgana. Merlin had to remind himself of that. She’d do everything in her power to make sure Arthur’s title never became official.

“So be it,” Arthur answered, and if Merlin didn’t know any better, he’d say Arthur sounded pleased. It took Merlin a moment to realise he was being addressed. “Merlin, go to the Druid’s camp. Ask Sonia if she will help us.” 

Merlin nodded rapidly. He was certain the Druids would come to their aid. 

“We have a long night ahead of us,” Arthur told the rest of them. “Gwaine, Lancelot, take Wallace and ready the army. We leave at first light.”

Everyone moved out of the hall, each intent on their own tasks, until at last only Merlin and Arthur remained. Merlin’s fears festered in the empty space, threatening to spill out of his mouth if he didn’t choke them down.

“You should go,” Arthur told him. When Merlin looked back at him, he was again leaning over the map again, his eyes fixed on Welwyn. He looked worried now, and tired, a demeanour he couldn’t have let on when the others were looking to him for protection. He was their courage. And so, Merlin could not let on his own concerns to Arthur.

He must be Arthur’s strength. It was his duty as consort.

It had always been his duty.

“What about the creatures of magic?” Merlin asked. “Dagnija’s big enough now to command them. We can use them.”

Arthur barely turned his head towards Merlin. “No. We shouldn’t let them stray so far from Winchester. We can’t let them overrun the provinces, lest we have another problem on our hands. They should stay put. Dag is another story. You’ll be prepared to call for her, should we need her?”

Merlin nodded shallowly. “Yeah, always.”

“Good.”

Arthur head dropped back down to the table. Merlin couldn’t leave him like that. Arthur couldn’t afford to dwell on what was to come. 

He filled in the space between them and placed his hand on top of Arthur’s in comfort. “We knew this day would come,” he said.

With his free hand, Arthur brushed his knuckles against Merlin’s fingers. 

“It doesn’t feel like we’re ready for it.”

“We are. _You_ are.”

Arthur gaze connected with his. Merlin stared back intently, simultaneously hoping to calm Arthur’s nerves and not give away his own. He didn’t know how many seconds had passed before a voice broke through the silence. 

“Arthur, I just heard what happened.” 

Merlin’s jaw tensed and his eyes hardened. It was a good thing Arthur had already tore his eyes away to rest on the newcomer. Slowly, Merlin turned to her entering the room. Nathara. Ever light on her feet, Merlin hadn’t heard her come in.

“I wondered where you were,” Arthur told her, sounding relieved. Merlin had wondered it, too, but he felt no relief in seeing her now. He wished she’d stayed away.

“Asleep,” she answered at once. “Every soldier is being woken up now. Leon told me the news and I came straight to you.”

“For what?”

“For permission to go to the Silver City,” Nathara answered. It seemed to throw Arthur. He shook his head in confusion, but before he could so much as stammer she went on: “We’ll need more soldiers to fight against the Neos. Rosewood can provide them.” 

By sheer force of will, Merlin tried to stop Arthur from allowing it. He suspected Nathara wouldn’t make for the Silver City should they let her out of their sight.

Thankfully, Arthur placed his hand on Nathara’s shoulder and said, “Slow down, Nathara. There’s no time.”

“Give me a car, then. Or a helicopter.” 

He shook his head. “Even if you did reach the Silver City tonight, Rosewood could never move her army south so quickly. I need you here, with the army. You have enough of your own soldiers with you. You know how they fight, and I need you to lead them.”

“But, Arth—.”

“Nathara.” Arthur was smiling at her softly, as though commending her for her devotion. Merlin wanted to shout. He had no evidence against Nathara, but it changed nothing. He hadn’t trusted her from the moment he first laid eyes on her, and the feeling only grew. Sometimes, he thought she sensed it. Whenever they were in a room together, her eyes always skimmed over him like he didn’t exist. She pointedly never looked at him.

Perhaps she was worried he could read her mind. 

“You’re to remain with your troops,” Arthur ordered, but it lacked the usual bark of a battle chief. His tone was much too kind. Merlin couldn’t understand Arthur’s admiration of her. However, he supposed he should have seen it coming. 

Arthur really knew how to pick his friends . . . 

She bristled, but played it off well. She gave nothing of her true intentions away. 

“Yes, sire,” she said. She bowed her head gently and left. Merlin glared at her until she was gone, daring her to look back. She never did. 

It took him a moment to notice Arthur staring at him. “Merlin, what are you still doing here? You need to find Sonia. Go.” 

Putting Nathara from his mind, Merlin promised, “I’ll be back in an hour.” He started away. 

Arthur almost rolled his eyes. “I won’t set my watch by it. Just don’t be late.”

Spinning around to walk backwards, Merlin forced out a laugh and threw his arms up in a shrug. “I’ve never been late.”

“I have a scar on my side that says differently.”

Merlin was certain the colour drained from his face. When he blinked, he saw that rooftop and Arthur’s still body. He pushed mirth. “I’ve learned my lesson.” It didn’t come out half as cheery as he’d intended. Knowing he couldn’t keep up the conversation, he turned and rushed from the room before Arthur could respond. 

Immediately, Merlin made for the Druid camp. He took his motorbike as far as he could into the forest, its engine booming off the darkened trees and its wheels unsteady on the slippery fallen leaves of the road, before abandoning it to weave through the woods on foot.

When he was a young man in his early days in Camelot, he could not find the Druid camps on his own. Usually, the Druids found him, and he often wondered how they did that. It wasn’t until he was older did he know how to find them. He let his magic guide him closer to the camp, feeling the way it made his hair stand on end and how it undulated beneath the soles of his boots. It broke down the shielding enchantment the Druids had placed on their camp, and Merlin knew he was near when he heard the soft melody of the nymphs. 

Firelight flickered through the trees and he heard the murmur of conversation. Only then did he relax his magic and allow his more human senses to guide him.

When he broke into the clearing, the two watchmen sitting around the fire looked up at him. At first, their expressions registered hostility, but then they must have recognised him because they became reverent. One even bowed his head as he said, “Emrys. What are you doing here so late?” 

“I need to speak with Sonia. I have message from the king.”

“She is in the council tent. Come with me,” the same watchman said. They left the second man alone to his duty as Merlin followed him to the council tent. Along the way, people saw him and called out his name. Mostly, he was met with exuberance; however, he saw worry on some of the older faces. They must have known his presence meant nothing good was to come. He didn’t stop for anyone until he reached the council tent.

Outside of it, Aurora sat cross-legged on the ground, drawing idly in the dirt with a twig. She looked up as Merlin approached, and the boredom on her face turned pleasant. “Emrys!” she said, scrambling to her feet. She must have noticed the severity of his expression, because hers turned to concern. “What are you—?” 

“Where’s your mum?”

“Inside. The council meeting’s almost over. I was—Hey!”

He pushed inside the tent despite her protest. He knew he would be welcome inside, and she only wished to hold him back because she wanted to know what was going on before anyone else did. He didn’t have time to tell the story twice. Besides, she was right on his heels when he entered the tent.

Sonia was inside, surrounded by her council members, Thomas included. They sat on camp chairs around a plastic folding table. It looked nothing like the Great Hall of Winchester, or any other council hall Merlin had ever seen.

“Hello, Emrys,” Sonia greeted evenly, not bothering to look as shocked as her council members. Merlin realised she’d been expecting him. He was glad for that. It could save him a lot of time.

“Do you know why I’m here?” 

Sonia inclined her head gently. “I have a vague notion. We were just discussing it, and thought King Arthur would have caught word by now. Morgana and her army are on the move.” 

“They’re going to London,” Merlin said, filling in the gaps. He wasn’t certain how much she’d seen. “Morgana plans to use her weapon there. We believe it’s strong enough to do significant damage to the city.”

“I believe so, too.” 

Merlin stepped closer to the table. It would do no good to stand in the doorway while making his appeal. “Arthur— _Albion_ ,” he corrected, “needs your help. We’ve never taken on so many of Morgana’s soldiers before. The only way we’ll be able to defeat them is to fight magic with magic.”

Sonia lifted her chin slightly. The strained eyes of her council members remained on her. They may have been discussing whether to join the army before Merlin barged in. He wondered if he’d interrupted before they’d reached a decision. 

Sonia looked down at the table in a curious way, appearing like she was making peace with something. Then, her gaze settled on Aurora.

“Will you help us?” he asked when the silence went on for too long. 

After a drawn out pause, Sonia responded, “Yes, we will help.”

Merlin let out a breath, and a smile flickered to his features for a brief moment. He knew the Druids still had their reservations of whether they were accepted, just as he knew Arthur was still uneasy of them; but both were willing to put aside those concerns to come together. This could finally break down all uncertainty. It was the beginning of something.

He looked over his shoulder at Aurora, who was beaming at him as if dawn had just broken over city. 

That reminded him: “We leave at first light,” he said, schooling his features and looking back at Sonia.

“We will be there. Give us some time to prepare.” She addressed her council, “Dismissed.”

At once, everyone picked themselves up and scurried past Merlin to the exit. Aurora lingered briefly to flash him another grin before following her father out. Only Sonia remained.

“Thank you,” he told her, and started to bow out of the tent. 

And then, he heard her voice in his mind. It stopped him. 

_Something is troubling you, Emrys. What is it?_

He thought of the battle that was imminent, and of a dream he had months ago that had yet to come true.

_I fear for Arthur_ , he told her. _I have seen him die in battle once, and I may have seen it again._

_You think it will be this battle?_

He didn’t know. In fact, he didn’t even know if his vision of Arthur dying came from the Crystals in the first place. It may have been Morgana messing with his head. He couldn’t trust him dreams anymore.

But why would Morgana show him Mordred dead, too? It didn’t add up. 

He didn’t know what to think. 

_Have you seen anything like it?_ he wondered, hoping to put his mind to rest. 

There was a pause. And then, _The prophecies say Arthur is meant to live. He is meant to be king again. It is his destiny._  

And yet, destiny had been thrown off course. And Sonia hadn’t answered his question. 

_But when you look into the future_ , he asked, _what do you see?_  

She titled her head to the side in thought, as if she were gazing through time that very moment. Perhaps she was. 

_The future is hazy in a way it has never been before_ , she told him at last. 

So, Arthur could still die. He could still leave his destiny unfulfilled. Morgana could still win. 

Or, Merlin could stop her. There could still be a chance; he’d just have to make it up as he went along.

_So nothing is certain_ , he said. 

Again, she gave that pained, almost grieving look, but it lasted for less than the span of a heartbeat. 

_Some things are always certain_ , she said.

His pulse jumped. _What things?_

“We will all find out soon enough,” she said aloud, and stood up. “Allow us to prepare, Emrys. There’s a lot to do. Go back to the city and wait for us there. King Arthur will need you more than we do.”

Knowing that was as much information as he was going to get, he nodded and exited the tent. Still, he paused outside the flap, wondering if he should go back in and demanded more answers.

No. There was no time, and Sonia was right: Arthur needed him. He’d be sure to get his answers from her later.

He started away, but something on the ground caught his eye. It was the symbol Aurora had been drawing in the dirt. Merlin knitted his brow down at it. It looked like a bird of some kind, encircled by a ring. It looked like Arthur’s mother’s sigil.

 

///

 

It was still dark out when Cenred rode back to York and Britain’s army made ready to follow. The Great Hall and the courtyard beyond were chaotic as medics and soldiers collected their supplies to move out.

Arthur, already in his Kevlar, stood next to the Round Table, his fingers gripping the top of his chair as he watched the proceedings. He did his best to train his expression into neutrality and straighten his posture into something stoic. It convinced everyone but himself. Inside, his nerves kicked up a tempest at the thought of what the day would bring.

At best, hundreds, if not thousands, of his soldiers would be slaughtered, without the hope of taking Morgana’s army with them. At worst, Morgana would release her weapon and everyone would die, the citizens of London included. The only good part of this situation was that, thanks to Cenred’s warning, they had a head start on the Neos, and would be able to intercept them before they ever reached the city. 

Trying to stay positive, Arthur reconsidered his best and worst case scenarios. The worst: If they got there in time, and if Morgana detonated her bomb, perhaps only half of London would be destroyed, including himself and his army. The best: the town they met the Neos in would be destroyed from the battle, and there was no hope of drawing them away to keep the fighting from any residential areas.

Arthur gritted his teeth, loathing how built up the world had become. There were hardly any suitable fields for battle anymore, and never where he needed them.

“Arthur?”

He turned to find Simmons and Darby, his service dog trotting loyally at his side, coming up to him. Darby held a metal briefcase at his side, and it drew Arthur’s eyes. He quickly corrected himself to look at his committee members. 

“It may be the eleventh hour,” Darby said, hefting the case onto the table with a thud, “but the prototype of our weapon is finally ready.”

Arthur blanched, unable to believe the stroke of luck. Maybe they would be able to take some Neos into death with them, after all.

“You’re kidding,” he said, and blinked a few times to ensure this wasn’t a dream. 

As Darby unlatched the case, Simmons said, “Don’t get too excited. There’s only three bullets each, so you’ll need to make them count.” 

_Each_? 

Arthur looked into the case and found two silver antique sawed off shotguns encased in black foam. He picked one up, getting a feel for it. It was different than any of the modern guns he’d handled, and that worried him slightly, as he hoped it still functioned the same way. However, this weapon was much more ornate than any other, with a smooth ivory handle and spidery engravings on the barrel. It looked like magic; it looked powerful. A modern sleek metal gun wouldn’t have had the same effect. 

“You’re wondering why we picked this weapon instead of the standard military grade,” Darby said, reading his thoughts. “The bullets we’ve created weren’t compatible with anything else, unfortunately. With time, and if it works, we may be able to create bullets suited for our weaponry.” 

“There’s nothing unfortunate about it,” Arthur assured him. He glanced at the other in the case. “Why are there two?” 

“As back-up, of course,” Simmons said. “We know where Morgana is going to be for once. This may be our only chance to get to her. I’d much rather bring her in for justice, but you never know what the situation will call for. If need be, one of these six bullets should be for her, and another for her sister. And you shouldn’t be our only hope in all matters.” She flashed him a thin smile. “We need insurance.” 

Arthur supposed he should have been flattered by her words, but he hardly heard them. His eyes snapped abruptly to hers at the mention of killing Morgana, and all heat drained from him. For a flash, he could not control his expression. 

Kill Morgana? Even in Camelot, he knew it was the only way to achieve peace. Morgana could not be jailed for long. She could not be stopped. The only option was her execution, then and now. After all, she would not hesitate to kill him. 

And yet, Arthur remembered the first time he watched his sister die. As she took her last breath, he felt as if he had died, too. All those years since he lost her to her magic, he had mourned her, but he realised upon her death that he had never truly let her go. Until the very moment she went still, he held a sliver of hope that she could be saved. Even now, he held it. How could he take that away from himself?

How could he kill his sister?

Perhaps it was best there was a second gun. If the need called for it, he had to do what was best for Britain. If he could not bring Morgana in, he had to think of his people and follow the sentiment of his committee. And he needed someone who would not hesitate to pull the trigger, because he would surely miss. 

He steeled himself, swallowing down his emotion, and nodded.

Worst-case scenario: His people died.

Best-case scenario: Morgana died.

Neither of them were a very good option.

“I know just the man for the second gun,” Arthur told them. Carefully, he put the weapon next to its twin and closed the case.

“I’ll have it loaded into your jeep,” Simmons promised. Then, her gaze turned softer—or, at least, softer than it had been when they spoke of business. “Good luck, Arthur.” 

Arthur nodded, and Simmons took the case by the handle and she and Darby walked off.

 

///

 

Across the Great Hall, Lancelot oversaw the weapons distribution amongst his troops. Many of the soldiers currently stationed in Winchester were young and hadn’t yet been in battle against the Neos. They had mostly been on rescue missions for refugees, and hadn’t come against all-out warfare. A few of them appeared scared, though they did a fine job at hiding it.

But Lancelot could see it. He felt it, too, as he did each time before he went into battle. He did not fear death; he never had, even in his first life. He would happily sacrifice himself for Arthur’s cause, and for the protection of his people.

He did, however, fear not living. For life and memory to be snuffed out, for a missing future. The last time, he had missed so much. There were things he had wanted to say but kept putting off, things he’d wanted to do but never did. He thought he had time to spare.

He had missed his friends grow and change. He had missed the peace made and the wars fought. He had missed Camelot’s bloom into a kingdom of legend. He had missed Gwen’s rule. What a fine queen she must have made. What a life she must have lived without him. 

He knew she didn’t need him, but he selfishly did not want to miss a moment of her life this time around. More than that, he wanted to be a part of it.

“Sir, they’re calling us to the jeeps,” one soldier said, breaking Lancelot out of his thoughts.

“What?” he asked before the meaning fully processed, and then rattled the cobwebs from his mind. It did no good to dwell on the what ifs. “Yes, of course.” He looked to the rest of his group, all the terrified faces, and raised his tone to order, “Move out.” 

The soldiers hustled past him to the exit. Through the chaos, he saw Gwen standing on her toes to catch a glimpse of him. She was worrying at her lower lip. Once she realised she had his attention, she placed her feet fully on the floor and remained still until he was before her.

All those things he’d wanted to say, and he found at once they were too big for words.

“So,” Gwen said, looking down and smoothing out the front of her dress. “Here we are again. It seems the war never ends.”

Lancelot smiled in lamentation. “Perhaps it will today,” he said hopefully. It was a gossamer of foolish hope. This war had been fought long before either of them were born, and it would continue after their deaths. No one remembered its beginning; perhaps not even the gods.

But Gwen was regarding him like he was the promise of a peaceful future, of summer days and softness. He wanted to be the one to give those things to her.

“You really believe that?” she asked like she might believe it, too, if only he said yes.

“No.” He could not lie to her. “But I must. I have faith in Arthur.”

Gwen’s gaze flashed over Lancelot’s shoulder to where Arthur stood. “As do I,” she said, biting her lip again in concern. She had faith in him before, Lancelot knew, and all his promises had turned into weights after he died, leaving her with the aftermath.

Part of her still loved Arthur. Maybe it was no longer a wife’s love, but it was love nonetheless. It would never fade. 

It caused a twisting sadness in Lancelot’s gut, though he knew he hadn’t the right. Gwen was never his to keep. She was too strong to be anything but her own self. He would never have all of her heart, and was grateful to have even a piece of it. 

“I will look after him,” he promised her gently, causing her eyes to rush back to him. “I will ensure Arthur returns home.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line, and she nodded thankfully. “I know you will,” she said. It reminded him of the last time he saw her before his death, when he had made her the same promise. At once, he was certain his fate would be the same. But then she took his hand in hers and said, “Promise me you will return, too.” 

He hadn’t been expecting it. His chest pounded like he was already on the battlefield. 

“I promise,” he said, and he would not break it. 

They filled the space between them with a kiss. It didn’t feel like a goodbye, as all their kisses had. It was a promise within itself. It was all the sentiments too big for words. With that kiss, Lancelot said them all. 

He’d never leave her. He’d come back from the dead for her already, and he’d do it again should he need to. 

“I love you, Gwen,” he told her when the kiss broke. It summed up all he wished to tell her. 

A bright smile pressed onto her lips, and her eyes glinted in the low light. She did not let go of his hands. “And I love you,” she said in return. Both of them had waited a lifetime for that exchange. Lancelot wondered why they waited at all. 

Reluctantly, they let go of each other and parted ways. _For now_ , Lancelot reminded himself as he made for the exit. Around him, the rest of the troops were collecting their supplies to head out.

Before he reached the door, he heard his name called.

Merlin was standing in the threshold leading to the back garden. He waved Lancelot over in a way that suggested it was a secret. Lancelot glanced around to make sure no one was looking before crossing to Merlin. They went into the garden, and Merlin closed the door behind them. Instantly, the clatter of voices was silenced. The cool blue of dawn was battling against the orange hue on the horizon and the speckled darkness of the zenith. 

Now away from any onlookers, Merlin dropped his performance and let his worry show. His eyes kept flickering back to the door, not in fear that it would open but as though he could see through it to Arthur inside. Maybe he could. 

“What is it?” Lancelot fretted, fearing the worst.

“Mordred,” said Merlin, and Lancelot’s gut swam. He knew at once what Merlin was afraid of. “He’ll be in London with Morgana. There’s no chance of Arthur bringing him in. He’ll kill him if he sees him.”

Lancelot nodded. He recalled what Freya had told he and Merlin about Arthur and Mordred’s fate. They were tied together. Should either of them fall that day, so would the other.

“You fear Mordred’s death,” Lancelot said.

Merlin scoffed bitterly and grimaced. “I _welcome_ Mordred’s death. I’d kill him myself had I the chance. But Arthur’s—.” He sucked in a breath, unable to get the words out. Arthur’s death was unthinkable to him. It was all his nightmares come true.

His gaze stayed on the door longer than it had previously. “Arthur will not die,” he said like it was an incantation, as though he could will all the forces of nature to make his words true. He looked back at Lancelot, his eyes beseechingly wild. “I need your help.” 

“Anything,” Lancelot urged, hoping Merlin had a plan. 

“I won’t leave Arthur’s side. I’ll do all I can to make sure he stays away from Mordred,” said Merlin. “I need you to find Mordred. Don’t let him out of your sight.” He paused and closed his eyes, unable to believe what he was about to say. “And I need you to protect him.”

It sounded wrong, as Merlin really wanted to say the opposite. It _felt_ wrong, as Lancelot knew that Mordred was his enemy.

Lancelot steeled himself and nodded. “I will protect him with my life.”

It was wrong. He had just promised Gwen he would return to her. 

He hoped he could keep both. 

Merlin swallowed hard. “I know,” he said thickly, guiltily.

Arthur’s shouts echoed on the breeze. That meant all the troops were prepared now. They were moving out. It was time.

Lancelot gripped Merlin’s shoulder firmly to show he’d meant what he said. Merlin slipped back into his mask for the public eye. Together, they made for the courtyard.


	12. Chapter 12

The late morning brought with it a blue, cloud-scattered sky and rays of sunshine that sat atop the zenith but never seemed to reach the earth. The crisp spring breeze rustled the budding trees lining the motorway, and Morgana realised the world became greener the further south their caravan drove.

The Neo-Territory had been warming over the last few weeks, too, but nature was slower to come alive than it seemed to be in the provinces. Morgause had said it was Emrys’ doing, and York would soon reap the benefits, too. It was only a matter of time, but Morgana’s patience was wearing thin. Why should she suffer the morning frosts still while Arthur was bathed in golden light? Why should he enjoy springtime in the kingdom that was rightfully hers, and the benefits of the magic he so hated? Why did Emrys not understand that?

_In time_ , she told herself. But her patience was running out on that, too.

Not far from London, their line of jeeps, lorries, and horses was halted. It shook Morgana from her thoughts, and she looked away from her reflection in the window. In the seat beside her, Morgause was stretching her neck to look out the windshield.

“Why have we stopped?” she demanded of Malcolm, currently their driver.

“I’m not sure, my lady.”

Something was wrong. Morgana could feel it. She was certain this was Arthur’s doing.

Without hesitation, she opened her door and got out of the car, ignoring Malcolm’s hurried protests of, “My queen, stay in—.”

A few car lengths in front of them, a group of soldiers were crowded together. Mordred was with them, his finger pointing in a number of directions in turn as he explained something to them. The wind carried his voice, but not his words. However, he appeared to be doling out orders. 

Morgana made for him, and each of the soldiers bowed respectfully upon seeing her. Behind her, Morgause appeared. 

“What seems to be the problem, Mordred?” Morgana asked.

He answered, “Our scouts have been giving their reports. Arthur’s troops are blocking our passage in all directions but one. It appears his whole army is lying in wait.” 

Morgause’s eyes narrowed into slits. “He knows we’re here.” 

“He must,” Mordred agreed with a nod. “We think he’s trying to lead us somewhere that might give him the advantage. The road he’s left open takes us away from London.” 

Morgana cursed inwardly. She did not wonder how Arthur gained insight into the Neo’s movements or her plan to march on London. “It seems the Crystals have been doing their work in Emrys apart from us,” she said.

And then, she decided, “Very well. If Arthur thinks he can out-manoeuvre us, we will show him he is wrong. We will remain here, and have him come to us. What town is this?” 

“Welwyn, my queen,” Mordred told her. “It’s roughly forty kilometres from London.” 

Morgana mused, “Our weapon is strong enough to cover that distance. We may still be able to take the city.” 

“Not all of it.” 

“But enough of it,” Morgause said, and her eyes twinkled in a satisfied way. “But that will be of little consequence. Arthur has hand-delivered his troops to us. Should we make our stand here, we will not have to bother with London when Winchester’s king is dead.” 

Morgana relished in that possibility. Time was ticking ever closer to Arthur’s coronation, and she hadn’t forgotten what the Cailleach told her. The moment the crown wreathed Arthur’s head, Morgana’s fate would be sealed. 

London was only to be a test, anyway. What did she care if its people were allowed to live their worthless lives snivelling through the muck? It was the people of Winchester she aimed to defeat, and their king. The battle would be long and ugly. If Arthur and his army perished now, much devastation to the city could be prevented. Morgana could take it without so much as lifting a finger.

“So be it,” Morgana decided. “Mordred, have your men find me a suitable place to unleash the weapon. Morgause and I will ensure Arthur can’t get to it so easily.”

“As will I,” Mordred promised. “Our troops will engage him the moment he arrives in town.”

Morgana was satisfied. “Then, let us bury him once and for all.”

Mordred nodded, and the generals around them bowed once more.

Morgana turned and made for her jeep again.

 

///

 

Before they even left Winchester, Lancelot and Merlin’s plan went wrong. On the way to Welwyn, Arthur wished to ride with all his commanding officers so that they could talk over the finer points of their strategy. While it allowed Lancelot to remain at Arthur’s side for the time being, there was no room left for Merlin in the car. 

At first, Merlin was insistent, but must have known he couldn’t argue without Arthur becoming suspicious. In the end, he gave Lancelot a withering look and loaded into the rover behind them, driven by Wallace. During the entire trip, Lancelot continuously threw his gaze to the car as if to ensure Merlin everything was under control until he was able to be at Arthur’s side again.

However, that time never came.

Their company passed into the town limits of Welwyn and wove through the deserted, suburban streets, rows of houses and gardens nestled on both sides. Lancelot was glad to see all the civilians had been cleared out of the town, and wondered if they’d been given enough time to pack some of their belongings before fleeing. The company that had aided the citizens was already stationed throughout the town, with Leon and Percival awaiting Arthur’s arrival in the town square.

The jeep Lancelot and Arthur were in was the third in line, and third to traverse the small bridges that granted access across the River Mimram. Behind them, a few cars in the back of the line turned on an adjacent road towards their station. Merlin and Wallace’s car was the only one that remained trailing after. The two jeeps in front of them presently turned, too. Theirs stayed on track towards Church Street. 

The radio attached to the jeep’s dashboard constantly crackled with reports from the different squadrons and scouts. Most of the reports told them what roads were clear, but some warned of Neo movement in the areas beyond Welwyn.

A report of the Neo army on Mill Lane sounded as their car bounced off of a bridge. 

Arthur leaned forward and addressed the driver: “Tell the nearby ranks to make for Mill Lane at once—.”

A loud boom from behind drowned out his words, and their car was pushed forward by a blast. Lancelot whipped around to look out the rear window. The car behind them had been caught in the blast. It was blown back, rubble and iron from the bridge flying upwards with it, and flipped upside down. It landed hard on the road, the roof crushing on impact.

“ _Merlin_!” Arthur bellowed as he practically jumped over the seat towards the rear window, like he could leap from the car and across the crumbled bridge to Merlin’s aid.

“Arthur, no!” Lancelot called, trying to settle him despite the pounding of his own heart. The Neos were already in the town, and they wanted to stop Arthur. Lancelot forced himself to remain calm, and willed himself to calm Arthur.

In the back seat, Elyan and Gwaine pulled their guns. Lancelot saw the same fear for Merlin in their eyes, but none so much compared to Arthur’s.

“Stop the car!” Arthur yelled, already reaching for the door handle.

The brakes began to screech.

“Don’t stop it. We must get to the church before Morgana!” Lancelot said, and the driver did as he was bid.

Arthur’s wild blue gaze latched onto Lancelot. “How—!”

“Merlin is fine,” Lancelot told him at once. “ _Think_ , Arthur! He cannot die. We have to keep moving. It’s likely Morgana is at the church already.” 

Arthur’s expression flickered through a range of emotion as he battled between logic and his heart. However, downcast, he eventually nodded and told the driver to continue on. He cast another glance back at the rubble fading into the distance. 

Lancelot would not allow himself to do the same. He didn’t know how long Merlin would be incapacitated, but he knew Merlin would never allow them to pause their mission on his account. It was up to Lancelot now to get Arthur to the church, and to prevent Arthur and Mordred from killing each other. He steadied his breath as he shouldered the responsibility. He would not let Merlin down.

The car sped further into town, following the roads to the old church. They couldn’t have been far when they turned a corner and were halted by a line of people standing, their backs to the car, along a row of houses. Before them, a wall of mist, dense and grey, rose high up to the tops of the nearby homes. Lancelot realised the people before them were Druids. Each of them had their hands raised to the fog as they chanted spells at it. They stood in a line before it, an unbreakable link keeping the fog at bay.

At the end of the line, a giant loomed beside them, keeping watch. He had a club in his hand the size of a young oak tree.

Once the car stopped, Lancelot jumped onto the street after Arthur, Gwaine and Elyan behind them.

“Sonia, what is this?” Arthur called, picking her out in the centre of the line. She stood next to Thomas, sweat lining their brows as they skewed their eyes closed tightly and murmured in intense concentration.

Upon hearing her name, Sonia turned. “An enchantment,” she told him. “It’s a barrier made from powerful magic. We can’t cross through it, and it’s not responding to our counter-spells. Where’s Emrys? He may be able to take it down.”

Arthur did not answer her question, but his shoulders did go taut at the reminder of his worry. “How far does it extend?” he asked instead. 

“We don’t know. From what I’ve seen, it’s blocked off an entire circumference of the town.”

Lancelot met Arthur’s eyes. They both knew it was a barrier to keep them from the church. 

“Is there no way through?” Gwaine asked.

“Every enchantment has a weak point. We have yet to find it,” Sonia said.

Arthur made to answer, but he was cut off by the sound of heavy footfalls. Lancelot turned to find a squadron of Neo-Druids, at least fifty of them, advancing towards them. The whoosh of metal sang through the air as Lancelot and Arthur drew their swords. Elyan and Gwaine readied their guns and, coming out of the car, their driver did the same.

Lancelot felt his pulse as the massive giant stood beside him, towering high, and let out a snort as he readied his club.

“Sire, let us take care of them. You have to find Morgana,” Sonia said. “The enchantment _will_ have a weak point. Take Thomas. He will find it and get you through. I’ll catch you up.”

It was clear Arthur wanted to resist. It took him a moment to decide but, when he did, he said, “Lancelot, with me. Elyan, Gwaine, help Sonia and her people.” 

As they made to leave, the Druids turned, their impenetrable barrier now facing the enemy.

“Be careful, Sonia,” Thomas said as he quickly squeezed his wife’s hand. 

She gave him baleful eyes, but a brave smile. “Protect our king, love,” was all she said. 

As the first shots rang out, and the first of the curses were thrown at the oncoming soldiers, Lancelot rushed away with Arthur and Thomas, following the wall of mist as they retreated through one of the home’s gardens.

Just before they turned a corner around the house, Lancelot looked over his soldier at the fray, catching a glimpse of the giant sweeping his mighty club to take out three Neo-Druids at once.

 

///

 

Morgana placed her palms around the stone ledge of the bell tower’s window and looked out at the streets bellow. She had hoped for a much higher vantage point in taking down Arthur’s army, but the tower above the church would do just fine. Her weapon would be able to gain enough height to spread out towards the city in the distance, with the added bonus of decimating Arthur and his troops.

By the end of the battle, the only British troops remaining would be the Druids, and they would be easily captured and taken in for their magic. And there would be another left. Emrys. With Arthur dead, it would be almost too easy to break him down and refashion him into a new animal. Morgana closed her eyes, as if she could reach out with her magic and sense his presence. Arthur’s army had entered the town not long ago, and she knew he’d been with them. 

Opening her eyes and looking over her shoulder, she found Morgause and Malcolm. Both scanned the area around them. Morgause remained fixed in one spot, while Malcolm circled from window to window, his gun resting in his hands as his gaze swept the lawn below. All three of them knew it was only a matter of time until Emrys and Arthur got through the barrier, and Morgana assumed the squadrons of soldiers within it would be no match for them in the long run. Both were merely there to slow them down. 

“Let us move quickly,” Morgause said, turning to meet Morgana’s eyes once she was satisfied that they were alone.

Morgana turned back to the drop outside the tower. She extended her hand and spoke the incantation, producing a small, burning white orb. It rested in her palm, letting its pure light cause bursts in her irises. The weapon was comfortably warm to the touch.

She wished Mordred could have remained at her side, too, for the victory they were about to have. But he belonged with his troops, fighting the good fight, and ensuring Arthur’s men were held back for as long as Morgana needed. 

They would see each other again, after this battle. She could feel it. Fate was on their side.

Her eyes yielded to gold as she began to chant down at the orb. Almost at once, it heated up and lifted from her hand. As she continued to verbalize the spell, it hovered away from her, and took its place just feet from the window. With every word, it lifted higher above the earth.

Morgana’s flesh began to tingle, as if circulation had been cut from her limbs, as the magic began to build inside of her. Expanding the power put inside the weapon was taxing, but it would be worth it. Already, the work of all her followers was revealing itself. 

The weapon began to burn brighter. It began to grow.

 

///

 

There was a din from somewhere very far away, muffled eruptions and shouts that sounded like whispers from under water. Slowly, they were ebbing closer, tickling at first at the edges of Merlin’s consciousness until they built up to a racket.

Merlin breathed in sharply through his nose, and the air felt too thick in his lungs, full of cement. He coughed to rid himself of the feeling, but that only caused his chest to burn and ache. When he opened his eyes, everything was dark at first, but soon he was able to pick out each individual speck of dust flying through the light. 

All his functions were slow to start up again. It was to be expected. It was always this way when they required a restart. 

He wondered how long he’d been out, floating through the nothingness where thoughts were nonexistent and both pain and happiness were unfelt, because there was nothing to feel it. The sabbatical, no matter how brief, might have been a solace if Merlin were conscious within it. 

But he wasn’t, which may have been the point of death: inescapable nothingness.

And now all stimulants were back, and every atom in him raged one word. _Arthur_.

He tried to sit up, to get himself moving. He had to find Arthur. Sleep would come later. He found he couldn’t move, and looked down his body to find a large piece of rubble pinning his legs. It looked like a chunk of the bridge. He’d only just noticed the pain in his leg, and reasoned it must be broken. Merlin panted, preparing to shift the weight off of him and for all the discomfort that would come with it.

His eyes glowed bright, and the rubble fell to the pile to the side of him. Instantly, a hot wire wrapped around his knee. He swallowed down a shout, gritted his teeth, and hovered his hand over the source of the blinding pain. It only got worse as the bones shifted back into place, but then subsided to a dull throb, the mere remnants of an ache. He’d been lucky, he considered, especially when he looked around himself for the first time.

The bridge had caved in completely, and jagged, crumbling cement and rusted metal rods were a precipice towards the Mimram on either side. The area around it was scattered with large chunks of road and steel, and the six fallen soldiers that had been in the jeep with him laying still beneath it all.

Merlin looked towards the opposite side of the water. There was only rubble, no bodies. It was possible Arthur’s rover had slid into the river, but the thought was merely a panic in Merlin’s haggard mind. He closed his eyes again and focused, reaching his magic outward.

His senses were still languid, but his magic waded through the town with searching fingers. He felt Arthur’s presence. Arthur was alive. Merlin’s heart steadied. Still, he couldn’t pinpoint Arthur’s exact location. He felt miles away, and there was too much interference. Merlin only had a general direction. 

Determined, he rose to his feet and shook out the wobbling in his knees.

_Arthur_.

He peered around for a route to take, and his eyes fell on the overturned jeep he’d been thrown from. All the windows had been shattered, and the vehicle rested with the wheels facing the sky. Someone was still inside.

Merlin rushed towards the driver’s side and knelt down. Wallace was still at the wheel, hanging upside down from his seat, and pinned back by the air bag. His face was red with the blood that had rushed downward, and he had a nasty gash on his forehead. Other than that, he looked unharmed.

“Wallace?” Merlin called, attempting to shake him awake to no effect. He ghosted his palm over Wallace’s wound, and it scabbed over. Carefully, Merlin got him out of the buckle and dragged him through the window.

“Wallace? David?” he called again, slapping at his cheeks, and this time Wallace stirred.

He blinked, trying to get his eyes to focus, and wheezed in the dust. “What happened?” he struggled out.

“An explosive, I think,” Merlin replied. He looked around for a medic, but no one was there. No ambulances, no troops, no Neos. He could hear them, though, shouts and gunshots carried on the wind, so they must have not been far from the bulk of the fighting. 

“Arthur?”

“Alive. Stop talking.” Merlin hadn’t meant for it to come out so curtly, but he wanted Wallace to save his energy.

“Do I need a doctor?”

Merlin brought his gaze back down, giving up on his search for someone who might be able to help. “You’ll live.”

Wallace propped himself up on his elbows, wincing slightly. “Good. ‘Cause I wanna find the asshole that wrecked my car.” 

A grin cracked Merlin’s cheeks. He stood up again and pulled Wallace to his feet. For a moment, it looked like Wallace would fall down again but he steeled himself and gained his balance. 

“I have to find Arthur.” _Before he finds Mordred_ , Merlin didn’t add.

“Need help?” 

“I’ll move faster alone.”

Wallace accepted it with a nod. He pulled his gun out of his holster and checked out many bullets he had. It clicked when he reinserted the magazine. Merlin wouldn’t try to talk him out of joining the fight. Wallace wouldn’t listen, anyway.

“Good luck.”

“You, too.”

They broke, and Merlin followed where his magic led, towards Arthur. Arthur had moved further away, it seemed, and Merlin knew it was too much to ask for him to stay the hell put. 

Merlin moved away from the river, and tried to stay far from the fray as he wove through the town. However, oftentimes it was inevitable. Full streets were chaotic with a battle that bled into the adjacent blocks. The fighting stayed away from the town centre, where the church was, which worried Merlin.

He soon found out why that was when he crept closer to Church Street. A wall of swirling, unnatural fog hung like a curtain. Powerful magic sliced through him, stopping him in his tracks. His eardrums buzzed with it, and his thoughts turned to static. He could sense the barrier created around the town centre like a wall. He reached towards it, feeling the magic crackle in his fingertips. 

The enchantment was due to a combination of Morgana, Morgause, and Mordred’s magic. He could feel each of them there as clearly as one might see a boot print in the mud. It would take too long to break, but the barrier must have had a weak point somewhere. Merlin needed to find it. Arthur would be determined to do the same. He’d charge headfirst towards Morgana by himself. Even if his knights were with him, they didn’t stand a chance.

Merlin closed his eyes and reached out for Arthur. When he determined a direction, he opened them and started that way.

 

///

 

They found a place along the parameter of Morgana’s barrier where the river met the woods. Or, at least, Thomas called it woods. To Arthur, it was a small copse of trees. However, Thomas said the power of the Old Religion was strong in the rushing water and tall trees.

“The magic of the world will be fighting against the enchantment. The barrier will be weaker here,” he said. He broke a twig and began drawing ancient symbols in the dirt. When he was finished he got to his knees and held his hands up to the sky as if in prayer.

“I will be able to open a passageway for you, but it will be small and I won’t be able to hold it for long,” he said.

“Are you not coming with us?” Arthur asked warily. He didn’t like the idea of facing Morgana and Morgause’s magic without a magician of his own. Where the hell was Merlin? He should have caught up by now.

Thomas shook his head in apology. “My magic isn’t strong enough. If Sonia were here—or Emrys . . .”

Arthur looked at the white fog and the seemingly desolate road before them. Morgana and Morgause would be protected. There would be soldiers inside the magical barrier. He turned back to Lancelot and gave him a firm nod. It appeared they would be alone in facing their enemy.

Lancelot did not look afraid. He doubled his grip on his sword as if their adversaries were charging them already.

“Do it,” Arthur told Thomas. Immediately, the man began to chant. His voice grew with every word, and his eyes burned gold when he opened them. The fog before them lessened, and a small portion of it slowly evaporated.

“Go!” Thomas struggled to say. His chanting became more urgent.

Arthur and Lancelot rushed through the break in the fog. He expected some kind of resistance, some electric shock or the feeling of wading through water. There was nothing. Thomas’ counter spell had been effective, and passing through the barrier had been as simple as moving through air.

Arthur looked over his shoulder to Thomas. The fog had closed in again, and he only caught glimpses of the Druid on the other side.

“All right, let’s go,” Arthur said, drawing his sword. The shotgun holstered to his hip felt like deadweight. It was nearly time to use it, to find out if it worked. In a short time, either Morgana and Morgause would be dead or Arthur and Lancelot would be. 

Arthur pushed the thoughts from his mind as he and Lancelot crept towards the cathedral, going slowly and using the buildings and fences as hiding spots against an unseen enemy. He couldn’t dwell on Morgana’s death, and he could not see his own as an option. He resolved not to hesitate. The moment he saw Morgana, he would draw the gun. Bringing her in would not be possible. She would not allow it.

And she was too dangerous alive.

He could not think of the past they shared or the future she robbed from them. His priority lay with his people. He had to be a king, not a brother. 

The bell tower of the cathedral rose in the distance as they drew closer. The cross on top stood gold against the blue sky, and glinted brighter than the cracked road and stone and mortar buildings framing it. It appeared to spring out of the earth from over the crest of the hill.

A few yards away, Arthur and Lancelot hid inside a slim alley and peered around the corner. The church stood amidst a courtyard and an expansive park. Along that park, closer to the street, half a dozen Neo soldiers stood guard. 

“We can’t engage them without alerting Morgana to our presence,” Lancelot whispered. 

“And we can’t get around them,” Arthur added. There was only one thing to do. One of them would have to fight, and the other would make for Morgana before she had the chance to set off the bomb. It lost them the element of surprise, but at least it bought them some time. “You take care of the soldiers. Morgana’s mine.” 

Lancelot grabbed Arthur’s arm and held him back. “Arthur,” he said, not having to finish his thought. It might as well have been Merlin speaking through him. 

“It’s our only option,” Arthur said, shaking out of his grip. “We’ve no chance if we fight them together.”

Lancelot pressed his lips together in thought, but he had no better strategy.

“He’ll kill me if you don’t make it out of here alive,” Lancelot said.

“If Morgana sets off that bomb, he won’t have to.”

Lancelot knew he was right. Together, they rushed out of the alley, swords raised.

 

///

 

Arthur’s army had overrun Welwyn. Mordred knew the British had the advantage the moment they cornered them in the town; but the Neos resisted bravely, taking on the magical warfare of the Druids and the elemental forces controlled by the nymphs that caused men to be swept into the river by an unnatural wave or thrown hundred of feet in a whirlwind. They withstood the sprays of bullets and grenade blasts from the soldiers, and the sweeping arms of the giants. Their goal was the kill as many soldiers as they could until Morgana’s weapon was primed.

Mordred had a different goal. 

His goal was to kill Arthur. 

At the beginning of the fight, he heard news of the king near the magical barrier. At once, Mordred broke from the fray to follow in Arthur’s footsteps. He kept his eyes searching, and listened out for any more tell of Arthur’s whereabouts. 

He needed to find Arthur, because there, he would find Merlin. 

In truth, his main goal wasn’t Arthur’s demise. It was Merlin’s. How Mordred wished he could drive his sword through Merlin’s gut and watch the light flicker from his eyes. But he could not have that wish until he possessed his sword from Camlann—or Excalibur. 

Arthur’s death would spell the end of the British rebellion, and it would weaken Merlin, but not for long. Merlin would turn on Mordred for revenge; but Mordred only needed a moment to rip Arthur’s sword from his dead fist and kill Merlin, too. It had been his plan as soon as he’d gotten word of Arthur’s troops in Welwyn. 

Morgana would be furious at him for killing Merlin. She may even hate him for some time; but she would see sense eventually. She would understand that Merlin would never join them, and only his death would lay the foundation for the world they would build from the ruins. 

Mordred would not let him defeat her again.

With such determination driving him, he crept along the fogged barrier until he reached a place where the river flowed through a thick wooded area. A small bridge, just wide enough for a single car, stretched from one bank to the other. Beneath it, the current bubbled and flowed.

Not far from the bridge, four people were kneeling before the fog. Their hands were held up to the barrier and they were chanting. Slowly, the fog was thinning out. 

Mordred verbalized a spell, and his eyes burned as he pushed one hand through the air. At once, all four people were knocked off their knees to the ground. They spotted him, and jumped to their feet. Three of them were men, Mordred realised, but one short woman was amongst them. She stepped forward bravely, and Mordred thought she must be their leader.

However, the thought barely crossed his mind before she pushed the hand forward, as he had done. The grass was torn from under his feet, along with the air from his lungs. He landed hard on his back a few feet from where he’d been standing. It caused a burning ache in his spine, and his vision went dark and hazy for a few moments as he blinked.

But he’d managed to hold onto his sword. He gripped the warm, sure metal tight in his fist and forced himself to recover.

 

///

 

The weapon radiated white hot, a birthing star on earth. Morgana felt its power filling her to the brim as it continued to grow. In mere minutes, its energy would be complete and ready to burst. She believed it was already enough to wipe out the whole of the city on the horizon. Still, she held her palms steadily towards it and continued to chant the incantation to arm it. 

A sudden explosion of shouts and the clatter of swords broke her concentration. 

“What is that?” she demanded, but did not wait for a response when Morgause and Malcolm made for the window. She looked over her shoulder to see a skirmish near the road. A figure, its blonde hair and drawn silver sword reflecting the white light of the bomb, was rushing towards the church.

“Arthur,” Morgause said.

“Is Emrys with him?” Morgana panicked.

“No. I believe it’s Sir Lancelot.” 

“So he is undefended?”

“He still has his sword.”

“I have a clear shot,” Malcolm said, gun in hand, its barrel following Arthur’s movements. He awaited orders.

Morgause jerked his arms downward. “Remain here and guard the queen.” She turned to Morgana. “Sister, the weapon is nearly complete. Continue to arm it. I shall deal with Arthur myself.” 

Morgana nodded. She had wanted Arthur to die by her weapon, by her hand, but she could not have him sabotage her chances. If she could not kill him, she was happy Morgause would. She trusted no one else but Morgause and Mordred for such a deed. 

As Arthur drew closer, Morgause spoke a spell and a sudden gust of wind blew through Morgana’s hair. In a whirl of shadow, Morgause disappeared. In the same manner, she materialized at the base of the church a few feet from Arthur. 

He moved to raise his sword, but she was ready. Morgause waved her hand through the air, causing Arthur to fly backwards. His sword was ripped from his grip in the process. He landed on his back metres from it, appearing injured.

He truly was useless without Emrys.

Satisfied, Morgana turned her eyes back to the weapon and continued to chant.

 

///

 

Merlin couldn’t feel Arthur’s presence anymore. Either he had found a way through the barrier and its magic was blocking Merlin’s sense of him, or . . .

Merlin could not think that way. He continued on, pushing his magic forward at all times as he searched for a single loose thread he could pull to unravel the entire thing. The cries and shouts of battle still rang in his ears, but they became ever distant as he circled further away. 

He was on a residential street near the river when he heard someone shout his name. “Emrys!” 

A lone figure was rushing towards him.

“Thomas!”

Why was he so far away from the battle?

Thomas sprinted the rest of the way and, when he reached Merlin, he panted heavily and put his hands on his knees. “I know where Arthur is,” he said between breaths, knowing why Merlin was so far from the fight himself. 

Merlin’s heart skipped. “Where?”

Thomas pointed his thumb over his shoulder. “He and Sir Lancelot are inside the fog. I managed to get them through.” Merlin’s nerves heightened. He tried to tell himself the barrier was preventing him from sensing Arthur, but it did no good. He was convinced Morgana had killed him.

“How?”

“Follow the river. It leads to the woods, where the magic of the water meets the magic of the earth.”

So, he and Thomas had the same idea.

“Good thinking.”

“Hurry, Emrys. He will have reached the church by now.”

“Come with me.” He could use all the magic he could get. 

Thomas shook his head. “I’m not like you. The magic it took to break the barrier weakened me. I’ll be no help to you. Go!” 

Merlin didn’t need to be told again. He clapped Thomas on the shoulder in thanks and shot off down the river, using it as a natural path towards the woods. With each step, he could feel the Old Religion building. It still wasn’t great in power, but it would be enough. Soon, the trees were in sight.

And then something caught his attention. 

He heard the struggle before he saw it. Not far from the edge of the barrier, two people were fighting on the bridge. Three bodies lay scattered on the road. Merlin nearly overlooked them and continued on, until he recognised the fighters. Sonia.

Mordred.

The relief Merlin felt knowing Arthur was still alive was short-lived as he looked again at the fallen. The bodies were three of Sonia’s counsellors.

Merlin’s breath caught when he saw the ferocity of the struggle. It was a magical one. Pieces of the bridge’s railing were blown away and scorch marks stained the road and grass beyond. And Sonia was winning. She had Mordred pressed against the stone railing, blood streaking down his face and his eyes glazed over. His sword had fallen from his hand and rested at his feet. He may have toppled over had she not been gripping him. 

Sonia held up her palm, and Merlin heard her ancient words carry over the water. Bright orange fire was swirling before her raised hand. Mordred would not survive the blow.

Which meant Arthur wouldn’t.

“Sonia, _no_!” Merlin bellowed.

Distracted, Sonia’s neck snapped in his direction. The flames she was conjuring instantly extinguished. Mordred used it to his advantage.

It happened too quickly, and Merlin was still too far away. Mordred pushed Sonia off of him. Deftly, he swooped down for his sword. Swiftly, he plunged it into Sonia’s gut. 

“ _No_!”

Merlin surged forward. He wasn’t fast enough. Mordred turned the blade and tore it from her body. She fell to her knees, and then collapsed to the road.

Mordred turned to face Merlin. Merlin scrambled to a halt near the mouth of the bridge.

Both remained still.

Mordred looked at him with a mixture of confusion and distrust for several breaths. And then, his expression twisted to hate. He lifted his sword and let out a battle cry, charging. Merlin pushed the air with both hands. Mordred flew back into the river and disappeared beneath the water.

Merlin ran to the barrier, searching for a sign of him. He would not be dead, and he would not drown. Merlin didn’t push him hard enough to cause unconsciousness, though he wanted to. At last, Mordred broke the surface gasping and thrashing, and was carried off by the current.

Then, Merlin heard wet, laboured breaths from behind him. 

Sonia.

He tore away from the side of the bridge and fell to her side. He found himself repeating her name, and he clasped his hand in hers. Blood was pooling on the fabric of her clothing, spreading rapidly. Crimson dyed her teeth, and a line of it trailed down her chin. Her bright eyes met Merlin’s, but they did not look surprised or fearful. There was only courage, and something else, too.

Reassurance? 

Merlin should have been the one reassuring her, so he did. “I’ll heal you. Hang on, Sonia. You’ll be fine.” 

He gave her hand a squeeze and hovered his free one over her wound. Though his eyes burnt, nothing happened. The wound was too deep, beyond repair. He tried again desperately.

Sonia gagged, like she was trying to say something. 

“No,” he said, his eyes welling with moisture. He couldn’t let her die, not while Mordred still lived. She needed to keep going. The Druids needed her, and Merlin needed her to see the world Arthur would bring forth. She deserved to be free. She deserved to be unafraid. She shouldn’t have to be brave. 

Merlin would not let her die. Not like this, and not yet. Not when it was his fault. 

“You’ll be fine, I swear it.” 

Her eyes grew solemn, almost pitying. She stopped trying to speak. Her breath became shallower. A shaky smile was pushed to her face, and she reached up to brush his cheek with her cold fingers. She looked at him as though he were a saviour. He wanted to tell her he was death itself. 

Sonia’s hand slipped away. Her grip in his slackened. Her eyes closed. 

“No,” he said again, tears choking the word. He brought his hands to cradle Sonia’s face and shook her gently. “You can’t. Wake up. I’ll heal you.” 

Sonia did not wake up.

“Sonia?”

His tears were falling in earnest now. He tried to control himself, but his chest quivered and his inhales were shaky. He wiped the blood from her chin with his thumb.

He’d caused this. He should have been quicker. He should have anticipated Mordred’s move. 

He shuddered, and the more he gasped in attempt to calm himself, the more he sobbed. He hadn’t reacted towards a death this way in centuries—not since Gwen died. Death was merely something that happened in theory, something that claimed all else but him. It was something he never stuck around long enough to see. He’d learned not to get attached, and to fill the hole in his chest with a new city, a new magical religion, a new world. 

It was different now. There was no moving on. There was no pretending all those he’d left behind were still out there, living their lives apart from him. This was his home, his world. And someone who should have been a part of it was gone forever. And it was his fault. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

He rocked on his knees, and the movement stirred something inside of him. He remembered all those he’d moved on from in his life, all his friends and all those he’d loved despite how hard he tried not to. They were all dead—every single one of them. Brother Aaron was buried in an overgrown plot near Winchester’s Cathedral, and Merlin had never once tried to find it; Luyu and the Crows would never again chase the sunburnt plains and deserts of the west; Majvy had taken her last train ride from Stockholm; Guru Vilochan, his wife and children, had been taken by reincarnation’s cycle. 

Sonia was dead. 

They were all gone. And Mordred still lived. Mordred got a second chance at life. Fate had shackled him to Arthur. It wasn’t fair. There were thousands more deserving. There were thousands who should have lived! Not Mordred! Not again! 

Merlin’s tears of remorse and sorrow turned to anger. His fists balled on Sonia’s body in tension that he could no longer keep in.

He let it out. 

He screamed. Loud enough for it to echo back to him off the trees, long enough that the echoes didn’t matter. 

The river below splashed and sprayed as though a hurricane had passed over it.

 

///

 

Arthur groaned the air back into his lungs. It had been knocked out of him when he hit the grass, and his spine ached in a bruise. He blinked the stars out of his eyes and twisted his back to fight through the pain. Every movement felt like a dull pin had been stuck into his muscle. He breathed, and held one hand under his jacket. He thought maybe he’d broken a rib.

_Get up_ , he told himself, teeth gritted. Morgause was nearly standing over him. _Get up_. He would not die like this, on his back. He would die on his feet, or he wouldn’t die at all.

_Get up_.

His body didn’t listen to his will. He held his sore ribs, and a cool press of metal shocked his knuckles.

In the near distance, a gunshot rang out, and then another. Morgause paid it no mind. Arthur winced, fearful that those shots were meant for Lancelot.

“Look here, the famed warrior king unable to stand on his feet,” Morgause taunted. “And what’s this?” She gingerly picked up his sword and regarded it with lust and reverence. 

Arthur picked up his head fractionally to look at her down his body. It was more of a struggle than it should have been. His spine complained. He drew in deep, fast inhales through his nose.

“What I could do with a weapon like this,” Morgause pondered. He hadn’t forgotten how skilled she was with a blade. “Such a thing could kill even the Emrys.”

_Get up!_

“But, oh, do I have such better things planned for him.”

Morgause levelled the sword, its point towards Arthur. She paced slowly closer. “But you? With your death, Morgana will finally be able to take the throne. She will build a better world.”

“Maybe,” Arthur said. Beneath his jacket, he wrapped his hand around the shotgun and pulled down the hammer. Would it work? He supposed he was about to find out. “But you’ll never see that world.”

He pulled out the gun and fired.

The crack was deafening, and Morgause’s shout rang out. But he’d missed. The bullet went into her shoulder. Her hand flew to it, and fresh blood seeped through her fingers.

“You fool! Do you think a mere bullet could kill me?” she seethed. She was standing over him now, and raised the sword up high in her free hand. It was a straight line, ready to be plunged into his chest. He tried to remind himself what Merlin had said about the sword, that the magic in it wouldn’t harm him. 

It didn’t seem very convincing with the tip of the blade so close to him now.

And then another crack erupted through the air. Morgause froze quite suddenly. Eyes wide with shock, she looked down at her chest. It was blooming red where her heart beat. The sword slipped from her grasp, and Arthur reflexively rolled over just in time to miss it, despite the agony it elicited.

He looked up. Lancelot stood nearby, the second shotgun still raised before him. Arthur was glad for Simmons’ foresight in making a back up.

Morgause let out something akin to a gasp, and then crumpled to the ground. 

“ _No_!" 

Arthur’s ears split with the shriek that echoed through the air, and the ground rumbled enough that Lancelot nearly lost his balance. With the growing bomb forgotten, it blinked out of existence. Arthur’s eyes snapped up to the tower. Morgana was thrashing in her guard’s arms. She continued to scream inconsolably. 

Lancelot stumbled to Arthur and picked him off the grass, and Arthur ignored the spike of pain it caused. However, Lancelot saw him wince and pulled Arthur’s arm over his shoulder to keep him upright. The world continued to rumble, and they had to side-step to keep from falling down. 

“My bullets are spent. Now’s your chance, Arthur. Shoot her!” 

Arthur held up the gun towards the tower. Her guard was trying to drag Morgana away. Arthur’s finger twitched over the trigger. He told himself to pull it, but again his body didn’t react. 

“Now, Arthur!”

Arthur took the shot. The bullet sparked against the flint on the bell tower.

Morgana was out of sight now, but her screams still echoed. However, the world was slowly beginning to settle back into place. Arthur’s bones still rattled with a phantom shaking.

“After her,” he ordered. He shook himself out of Lancelot’s grip and the two circled around the church.

They were too late. Tyres kicked up gravel as Morgana’s car peeled down the road. 

Arthur levelled the gun again, but it was no use. He had one bullet left and no chance of it hitting his mark. He dropped his arm. 

“Damn it!” he shouted as the car turned into nothing but a fast moving dot turning a corner.

Beside him, he heard Lancelot catching his breath.

“Arthur—.”

“I should have had her!” 

“We won here, Arthur. We were victorious.”

“She got away!” 

“You saved London.”

Arthur calmed. He looked Lancelot up and down and shook his head. The victory was not his. “ _You_ saved London.”

Lancelot did not take the praise, but he didn’t deny it either. He simply nodded his head once and said, “We should be getting back to the others.”

With Morgana gone, the Neo army would retreat, but some brave and stupid few might remain. Arthur would accept their surrender if they gave it. Many of Morgana’s soldiers fought against their will. They may wish to join the British cause instead.

Arthur and Lancelot made their way back from where they came. Soon, it became clear that the barrier of fog has dissipated into nothing. Morgana had made her escape. 

They met a group of soldiers and Druids close to where the bulk of the skirmishes had been fought. The town would need rebuilding, for certain. Walls were crumbled and fires resisted the efforts to be put out. But still, it could have been worse. In the distance, the silhouettes of London’s buildings still touched the sky. 

Arthur touched his hand to his side. There was still a dull, thrumming pain, but it was slowly going away. The damage must not have been as bad as he’d thought. 

Thomas was amongst the group. He rushed to Arthur and Lancelot and immediately said, “The Neos are gone! Did you do it, then? Is she dead?”

Arthur didn’t answer the question. The story would be told many times over, but later. He surveyed the damage. Many good soldiers had died that day.

“Where’s Merlin?” he asked. Merlin would want to know that Arthur was all right, and Arthur wanted his husband.

“I saw him not long ago,” was the answer. “I told him about the weak point in the barrier. He went that way.” Thomas’ brows furrowed in concern. “He didn’t find you?” 

Arthur began to worry, too. There wasn’t much that would prevent Merlin from being at his side.

The three men set out to find him, retracing their steps back to the river and the woods. 

They saw Merlin on his knees on the bridge, slumped next to a still body. Arthur couldn’t at first make out who it was, and his colour drained in thinking it was one of his knights. Merlin appeared to have been there a long time. There was dried blood on his hands, and his face was red and tear-streaked. His eyes were bleary, but dry. He looked void of all life. 

“Merlin?” Arthur called, and Merlin looked up immediately as though he’d just woken open. His chest heaved shakily, and he braced himself for something. 

Next to Arthur, Thomas froze. “Sonia?” he whispered with disbelief. 

Arthur’s stomach dropped. He got his first good look at the body, and all relief of seeing Merlin turned to sorrow. It was Sonia resting at Merlin’s knees.

When Thomas spoke again, his voice was broken. “Sonia!” He ran the rest of the way to the bridge and fell upon his wife. Merlin jolted back as though he’d been pushed. He got to his feet and gave them their space. Every line in his body was hunched inward as he paced to Arthur and Lancelot, head hanging. 

“My beautiful Sonia! No!” Thomas sobbed.

“What happened?” Arthur said when Merlin was close enough. He kept his voice low to give Thomas his peace.

Merlin sniffed sharply and looked up. “It was Mordred. I couldn’t stop him.”

Upon hearing Mordred’s name, Arthur blood boiled. Somehow, he knew Mordred wasn’t dead. Both he and Morgana had gotten away. At least Morgause was out of the picture. It was something, and it would cause a blow to Morgana.

But losing Sonia was a great blow, too. Already, Arthur mourned her.

At Merlin’s words, Lancelot’s eyes snapped away from Thomas and latched onto Merlin. His expression was a mixture of understanding and grief. Merlin looked at his boots.

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t fast enough,” Merlin said. 

Arthur took him by the wrist. “You’re not to blame.” 

Merlin said nothing, and Arthur didn’t know how to console him. Arthur was too spent himself. His insides were hollow, and his muscles ached for rest. There was too much to do for that. He had to go help his people. 

“Lancelot, return to the town. Aid in the clean up. Then, go to where the civilians were evacuated and put everyone whose homes were destroyed in jeeps. They’ll go to London until we can find them a more permanent place.” He wanted the civilians out first. The soldiers would follow. 

Lancelot bowed his head, but he was looking at Merlin. “Sire.” He turned and started off.

“I’m sorry,” Merlin said again under his voice.

Arthur pressed his lips together in sympathy, but he had no words. “Come here, my soul,” was all he could say. He took Merlin in his arms, and held his head against his shoulder. Merlin shivered softly against him.

He looked at the bridge, where Thomas was cradling his wife’s body. Arthur could not imagine such pain, and he didn’t want to. He held Merlin closer. He was lucky, he knew, to love someone death could not lay a hand upon.

 

///

 

One hundred fires blazed in neat rows across the pitch before Merlin. It felt like more than that. The funeral pyres seemed to go as far as the horizon, where London stretched up high in a monolith of steal and multicoloured smog against the night. Bugles called out the _Last Post_ to send the soldiers off, but Merlin wondered if anyone was really listening. 

This was the second night of funerals. The third and final night would be tomorrow. It had taken twice as many days to prepare the pyres and bodies. It was the most soldiers the union had lost in a single battle.

Merlin watched the haze of smoke rise up and listened to the crackle of the dried wood. It seemed like such an archaic way of sending anyone off, reserved for a time so long ago. For so long, bodies had been buried in graveyards or shoved into sealed tombs. In the years since the War, cremation became the only option for the dead, but it was so clinical. Bodies were taken off to a furnace far from the public eye and returned to their loved ones, a pile of ash, in decorative urns to put on the mantle. Merlin couldn’t stand it; neither could Arthur, who thought all people should be put to rest with more respect. 

Merlin preferred this way, the old way. The body could be returned to the earth as the ashes mixed with the dirt, and the energy could waft towards the sky in great pillars of smoke. The Old Religion would have its fill tonight. Merlin felt the magic of the world overflowing beneath his feet, sloshing and waving upwards like a flood. 

Long after the funeral song ended, the pyres still burned. The congregation dwindled as the moon set. Merlin caught movement around the pyre that his eyes had strayed to too often during the ceremony. Thomas and Aurora stood close by Sonia’s pyre. They were burnt orange shadows against the mound of flames. Arthur was with them. He had his hand on Thomas’ shoulder, but his head was ducked towards Aurora as he spoke in severe whispers. 

Merlin inhaled into his hollow chest and felt the air rattle within it. He was the reason Aurora lost his mother and Thomas his wife. He was the reason the Druids mourned for their leader. He mourned for her, too, though he knew he hadn’t the right. Every time he closed his eyes, he remembered the look on her face when Mordred’s blade pierced through her. There was no shock in it, only immediate acceptance, and a gentleness that looked like she was comforting Merlin.

She had foreseen her own death. She knew Merlin would sacrifice her to save Arthur, and she was telling him not to harbour guilt for it. But he did. He should have been quicker. He should have known Mordred wouldn’t hesitate. He could have prevented her death. 

Arthur’s hand went to Aurora’s arm and gave it a supportive squeeze. When he released her, he left the two behind, and they lingered near the pyre, Aurora’s arms clasped around Thomas’ waist as though he, too, might disperse in a cloud of smoke.

Merlin sniffled and quickly blinked the tears from his eyes as Arthur, head lowered and shoulders taut, made for him.

“How are they?” Merlin asked when Arthur settled at his side. Maybe he was a glutton for punishment, but he had to hear the damage he’d done. He wanted to confess to Arthur, but Arthur would only ask why Merlin had tried to save Mordred’s life. So Merlin remained silent, his chest still laden and his boots shackled to the ground beneath them. 

“They’ll be fine,” Arthur hesitated to say. He didn’t dare say they’d move on, as no one could from a loss that great. But they’d adjust, eventually. 

Then, “The role of leader amongst the Druids passes to Aurora now.”

“She’s young,” Merlin said.

“I was young when I first became king.”

Merlin shuffled as he remembered that day. There had been too much pride in him for grief to have any room. Today, there was nothing but grief. “It was a different time.” 

“Maybe,” Arthur said, looking off at the flames. They must have warmed him. Merlin couldn’t feel much of that through the steel barrier of his skin. “But she’s strong.” 

_She shouldn’t have to be strong_ , Merlin lamented, _she’s a child_.

He could almost hear Arthur’s response: _Everyone’s a child to you_.

“And she has you to guide her,” Arthur finished, his gaze sweeping to Merlin. The faith in his stare was a tangible thing, and made Merlin look back. He remained silent, and accepted the task. It was the least he owed to Sonia, to teach her daughter.

Arthur turned around to head off the field, but he hovered momentarily and clapped his palm to Merlin’s shoulder.

“We’ll end this,” he swore. “Morgana will pay for all she’s done. Remember, we had a victory here.” 

His words were hollow. He, too, had counted the funeral pyres, and it didn’t feel like a victory. Still, he had to put on a brave face for his people; and Merlin had to be brave for Arthur. 

Merlin reached up and put his hand on top of Arthur’s, rubbing it in a reassuring way. He nodded quickly, and Arthur let him go. 

He stood alone, debating whether or not to offer his condolences to Thomas and Aurora. He worried they’d see right through him. What would he say, anyway? 

Yes, he was sorry for Sonia’s death. Yes, he would dream about it for years to come. But all that remorse was overshadowed by a single truth: to keep Arthur safe, he’d watch a thousand pyres burn.

 

///

 

The throne room was empty, all but for Morgana. She’d locked herself inside days ago and hadn’t left since. Malcolm remained on guard on the other side, she knew, but his presence was no comfort to her. She sat upon her throne, her head hanging and her body too weak to lift it. All her tears had been spent.

She was alone. Completely. Utterly. The places to the left and right of her were vacant. She hadn’t even bodies to bury. A search party had been sent to find Mordred’s body, and she had lost hope days ago that they would find him breathing. However, they didn’t find him at all. Arthur’s troops were still in London, guarding the area. Morgana did not want to think of what heinous way the British army disposed of her only family. 

She could not bear it. 

She had felt alone when Morgause died in their first life, and again when Mordred was killed. Now, to lose them both at once was a fate worse than death. How could she continue on without them? 

As her thoughts spun, she remembered another who she had lost so long ago.

She thought back to her father—her real father, the man who raised her. Gorloius had yellow hair, just like Morgause. Morgana could not remember her mother well, but from her portraits, she knew her appearance was a stark difference to her husband’s. She was dark and intense, every angle of her body as sharp as a sword’s edge. Gorloius was soft and kind, and Morgana could remember his easy laugh even now. 

He smelt of fresh pies, even after a day on the training field. When he came back from a quest, he would always bring Morgana a gift from some far off land with the promise of one day taking her there. Whenever he was gone, she waited at the window every hour for him to return. When he finally did, she would curl up in his bed for days after, falling asleep to the tales of his travels.

She wondered if Morgause had done the same before Morgana was born. Perhaps she had Vivienne to keep her company, and to teach her the ways of the Old Religion. Morgana had no such time with their mother. She only had Gorloius—her greatest role model and best friend. 

How happy they could have all been, the four of them as a family, if only Arthur was never born. 

Morgana remembered the first time she saw the prince, a week after his birth. She was just a child herself, only three years old. But she remembered. He was swaddled in the softest fabrics in his crib and cooing. His small fists reached for her, but she did not dare touch him.

She remembered feeling such pity for him. He had no mother. She knew what that was like. Her mother had fallen ill and perished months before. At least her mother had held her; at least they had some time together, however fleeting. The prince had only a grieving king, and such things could never keep him warm.

“I can care for him,” Morgana had apparently said at the time. Gorloius had told her the tale once when he’d too much to drink, on the anniversary of Vivienne’s death. He’d laughed the words, but his face twisted into melancholy as he finished, “‘I could be his sister,’ you said.” 

_He knew_ , she would later realise. He knew that Morgana was not truly his. That she was Uther’s flesh. And yet, still he raised her as his own. Still, he loved her. 

Uther had taken everything from him. He’d taken Gorloius’ wife—and then he took her life. Morgana didn’t recall her mother’s illness, but she heard Gorloius whispering to Gaius late in the night when she was meant to be asleep. Vivienne’s illness had come on so quickly, and so mysteriously. Once, Morgana thought she heard her father whisper the word _poisoned_ through the door. It made sense now. Uther no doubt wanted to hide his secret, but hadn’t the heart to kill Morgana, too. But she knew he was ashamed of her. 

Years later, Uther had taken Gorloius’ eldest daughter. Gorloius gave her up to save her, to keep Morgause from Uther’s tyranny. Morgana hadn’t displayed any of her mother’s talents at such a young age, but she wondered how different things would have been if she, too, were sent to live with the High Priestesses. She wanted to hate her father for splitting her from her sister, but she knew he was not to blame. He was only protecting Morgause, and Morgana swelled with pride to think Gorloius rebelled against Uther in some small way.

And then, finally, when Uther had nothing left to take, he took Gorloius’ life.

He was waging Uther’s war against magic. He would set out with his men one morning to what was meant to be a simple patrol of a village, to eradicate it of magic users. Little did Gorloius know, he was leading his men into an ambush. 

“But I don’t want you to go!” Morgana had demanded the night before, pouting and stomping her little foot down on the end of her dress. Gorloius’ lips always quirked when she did that, like she reminded him of her mother. She did not let his humour whittle at her will. She would not see her father leave. He would be away for weeks. He would miss her eighth birthday. “If the king wants to get rid of sorcerers, why doesn’t he go himself?”

“Because he is the king,” her father had told her.

“And I’m your daughter!”

Gorloius’ face softened sadly at this, showing his guilt. He stopped preparing his armour and knelt in front of her, level with her eyes. “I will return before your birthday with a gift fit for a princess,” he promised, and she huffed. She did not want gifts. She wanted him to stay. She had a bad feeling about this quest. She’d dreamt the night before that he had died, and she’d woken up screaming until he calmed her. At the time, she thought it was just a dream. 

He’d put his hand on her cheek and said, “Mind the king while I’m gone.” She did not know it had been a warning—to keep an eye on Uther, to not fall for his deceit. Gorloius was suspicious of him, but he played loyal knight, even in private. “He’s promised he will care for you while I’m away.” 

Morgana closed her eyes, her dream still burned behind her lids. Her father’s grip firmed. “Come now, love,” he said as he always did when she was afraid. “Only a brave heart can slay the dragon.” 

She’d come across two dragons in her life. Their blood ran through her veins like a disease. She had to be brave against it every day.

Dragons were not easily slain, nor were their lords. But she would not fail this time. She would carry on, in Gorloius’ memory, in Vivienne’s—in Morgause’s. She would succeed in exacting the vengeance they could not.

Her rallying thoughts turned fragile when the doors to the throne room opened. Anger spiked within her. How dare Malcolm disturb her? She didn’t wish to see him or anyone else. She needed more time alone to grieve her loses. Only then would she come back stronger. She would kill Arthur for what he did. But first, she needed to be alone. 

Her anger was instantly forgotten when she realised the head of dark hair ducking into the room did not belong to Malcolm.

“Mordred!” she called, tears anew in her voice. But they were happy tears. She had not felt such a thing in what felt like an eternity. She jumped from her throne and ran to him. He met her in the middle of the room and rushed into her arms.

She held him dearly, convincing herself that he was solid and warm. How could she have given up on him so easily? She should have known he wouldn’t abandon her. Not even death could separate them forever.

She pulled away from him at last, but held his face in her hands. His cheeks were damp with joy.

He said, sobering, “I heard about the Lady Morgause. I’m sorry, Morgana.”

The reminder struck her, but it was easier to bear now that he was with her. “I thought I’d lost you,” she cried.

He gave her a sad smile, silently promising he wouldn’t leave her. But he admitted, “In truth, you almost did.”

She released him and gave him a curious look. Clearly, he had found his way back to York himself. He appeared exhausted and in need of food and a bath, but she would hear what he had to say before that. Even if she told him to care for himself first, she knew he would refuse. He looked urgent. 

“How?” 

“It was the Druid leader,” he told. “Her magic was strong. She almost had me.” 

Morgana did not miss his use of the past tense. She was proud of his victory. “But you got her in the end.”

He hesitated, rethinking what he wanted to say. Like it pained him, he said, “I had help.”

Morgana’s brows furrowed. He did not appear to appreciate the help. In fact, he looked as though he hadn’t understood what happened at all. “Whose?”

Another pause. 

And then, “Emrys.”

At first, Morgana was shocked. She turned away, pondering why Emrys would do such a thing. And then it dawned on her. 

Even in such a dark time, hope sprung within her breast. 

“Morgause’s plan is working,” she laughed. “Already, Emrys is turning towards us!”

Mordred shook his head urgently, unwilling to believe it. How could he still be so against this notion when he had proof? “I don’t think so, Morgana. I don’t think his intention was to save me.” 

“Then what?”

“I don’t . . .” He stammered. “I don’t know what he meant by it.”

She would show him that Emrys was theirs now—or he would be very soon. She was no fool. She knew too much of Emrys still belonged to Arthur, but she had made doubt enter his mind. That was enough. She would exploit it. Soon, the three of them would stand together, none of them questioning the other’s loyalty.

“Then, there is one way to know for certain,” she schemed. “I think it’s time we spoke to Emrys face-to-face.”

This troubled Mordred. He shook his head again. “You want to go to Winchester? After all that’s just happened? The city will be on high alert!” 

Morgana had no intention of doing so. “Of course, not. Emrys will come to us.”

“He will never willingly come—!” 

“Mordred,” Morgana soothed, looking over her shoulder at him. She offered him a sly smile.

Arthur had taken something irreplaceable from her. She would be sure to repay the favour in kind.

“I never said he’d be willing.”


	13. Chapter 13

Merlin’s fingers dug into Arthur’s shoulder blades, trying to find leverage as Arthur’s muscles slid beneath the surface of his skin. Arthur was rocking into him with slow, circling hips, and the cadence was just enough to drive Merlin mad. His body ached for release, but hung in the balance, riding out the waves of pleasure that he never wanted to stop.

“Ooh, right there, Arthur,” Merlin panted when Arthur changed his pace ever so slightly. The skin of Arthur’s stomach rubbed against Merlin’s building erection between them in a sensitive way that sparked stars in Merlin’s vision.

Or maybe that was just the amber flashing in Merlin’s eyes. 

Arthur saw it and lined his jaw with nibbles. “Not yet. Please, Merlin.” His kisses moved to Merlin’s lips. “Please.” 

Merlin opened his mouth to Arthur hungrily, and slid their tongues together. Arthur was making desperate sounds that puffed moist air into Merlin’s throat. His hips worked a little faster, sending shivers through Merlin’s bones 

Merlin broke away, his lungs burning for air. Arthur nuzzled his forehead into the dip between Merlin’s neck and shoulder. He kept breathing out Merlin’s name.

The next time they did this, Arthur would be a king—a crowned king. Merlin would really like to get to that. He grabbed Arthur’s hair, already imagining a crown on his head. It made a moan escape his dry throat.

Arthur knocked against him faster, but Merlin didn’t know if it was a conscious decision.

“Aaah,” Arthur groaned out. “You’re amazing, Merlin.”

“Glad you think I’m good for something.”

“Just this one thing.” 

Merlin chortled, but it was cut short by Arthur taking him into another greedy kiss. When it broke, Arthur panted, “I can’t wait to see you in that crown, Merlin.” 

Merlin found himself grinning. “You? I think—I’ve done my fair share—of waiting.”

And the day had finally arrived. _Finally_. Everyone was in Winchester: the leaders of the provinces, their cabinets and deputies. And, although Rosewood herself hadn’t come, she’d sent a gift of twenty ships, plus captains and crews to pilot them. The new fleet would easily and quickly move the army where they needed to go, through rivers and seas, when cars were too restrictive and marching was too slow. It gave them a hell of advantage over the Neos. 

With that gift, everything was in place. Even the army’s barracks had been fully completed and opened with a ceremony, and the soldiers and their families were quickly moving in. The city was ready for Arthur to take the crown. Merlin was ready. 

And, at last, it was only a day away.

“Are you happy?” Arthur asked. 

Happy was an understatement. There wasn’t a word for what Merlin was. His chest burst with it. 

“Can’t tell with how hard you’re fucking me.” 

“I could stop?”

“Don’t you dare.”

Arthur didn’t dare. His thrusts became more erratic, and soon Merlin couldn’t grab hold of the air, much less his grip on his magic. The fire in the hearth began to roar, and the world was soaked in a honey hue. The air was filled with Merlin’s name and Arthur’s name and _don’t stop don’t stop_ and _I love you I love you I love you_. And it was silenced when their lips met again. 

Merlin gasped into Arthur’s mouth when he came, his grip tightening in Arthur’s hair. Arthur deepened the kiss as groans left Merlin’s throat. The sensation was prolonged as Arthur continued to grind against him, until his muscles arched and he came, too.

They rode it out together, slowing their circling hips until the bursts of pleasure ebbed away and they collapsed against each other.

They kissed some more, gentle and slow, until Arthur rested his head against Merlin’s shoulder and drank in bouts of air. Merlin cradled his head, twisting his fingers through Arthur’s hair. 

 _My king_ , was the only thought running through Merlin’s mind like a mantra. He hummed sleepily. He wanted to sleep for a day, so time would pass faster and Arthur would be made king sooner. He couldn’t wait anymore. After a thousand of years, his patience had run out with only a day to go.

Arthur rolled to the side of him, and got out of bed to disappear into the bathroom. Merlin chewed at the inside of his cheek as he watched Arthur, his pink flushed skin and finely tuned muscles glistening in the fire’s glow, with contentedness.

Contentedness. At last.

He heard the sink turn on and off in the bathroom, and then Arthur returned with a damp cloth that he tossed at Merlin before crawling back into bed.

Merlin cleaned off his stomach as Arthur readjusted himself so that his head was on Merlin’s shoulder. Arthur slung his arm over Merlin’s chest. 

“Love you,” he murmured, his voice muffled by exhaustion and Merlin’s skin. 

Merlin pressed a kiss to Arthur’s forehead. “My king.” 

“My husband.” 

Something warm blossomed in Merlin’s chest. He idly twirled the band on his finger. It was the last thing he remembered doing before drifting off to the sound of Arthur’s breathing. 

At once, the warmth Merlin felt dropped into a brittle cold, and the sweet taste of Arthur in his mouth turned sour. An eruption of sound and colours flashed before his eyes: the crest of the hill on day he arrived in Camelot, Mordred holding up a sword with a chip in the blade, the rain soaking him on the Isle of the Blessed as it clunked against the metal of the Cup of Life, Arthur with a purple crown on his head.

And then the coldness overcame him. There was nothing left but pitch black and the sound of dripping water far off. Merlin thought he was deep within a cave, but the touch of the stone walls his fingers scrambled against were smooth. Slowly, his eyes adjusted to the low light and he saw the cavern walls were honeycombed with broken plaques and deep shelves.

He wasn’t in a cave. He was in a tomb. No—it was tunnel. 

The air was thin with too little oxygen, full of dust and cobwebs.

The vision shifted into another room, much like the last. But there was something inside one of the empty shelves. A pale white glow lit up its silver metal and formed its shape. Something was buzzing in Merlin’s mind, an aggressive hum that felt on the verge of splitting his head in two. The object in the tunnel was letting off a lot of magic. Powerful magic. Ancient magic. 

The image crackled out of view to make way for more: the moment Merlin had poisoned Morgana in Camelot, Arthur and Gwen kissing in Buckingham Palace, Morgause dying from a silver bullet to the gut. 

When Merlin awoke, it was barely light outside. Only the soft sliver of sun on the horizon swept over the sky. Arthur’s head was still on his shoulder. 

Merlin looked at the clock. It was the day before Arthur’s coronation, still in the early hours before sunrise. They needed to be at the final rehearsal at nine o’clock. But all Merlin could think about was that tunnel. He didn’t know how, but he knew it’s exact location.

He must have stirred, because Arthur groaned and blinked awake. He looked up at Merlin groggily, but woke up quickly when he saw the expression on Merlin’s face.

“Merlin?” he asked, not a sign of sleep in his voice. 

Merlin blinked back into the present. His gaze swept to Arthur’s. 

“I know where Morgana’s keeping the Cup of Life.”

 

///

 

That morning, Gwen was roused from sleep by a knock at her door, and a messenger asking her to report to the Great Hall at once. When she arrived, the committee was already there, still yawning at the hour. Aurora and Thomas, Nathara, Wallace, and the knights were present, as well. Gwen meant to go to Lancelot to ask him if he knew of the emergency, but she hadn’t the chance.

Almost as soon as she walked into the hall, Simmons tapped her on the arm. “What’s this all about?” She had in her eyes the same confusion, and the same urgency, that Gwen felt swimming in her gut. Both of them could only assume it was Morgana’s doing. Gwen didn’t dare say she set off her bomb again.

“Where is Arthur? This is getting ridiculous,” Brown called impatiently to the room at large.

Just then, the doors from the anteroom opened and Arthur walked through, Merlin and Gaius, a map rolled up in his fist, on his heels. All three of them looked tense. Merlin and Gaius kept shooting each other glances in intervals that never coincided. 

“I’m here,” Arthur said, his presence instantly commanding the room. He waved towards the Round Table. “Sit, all of you. Please.” 

Gwen wanted to take him aside and demand what was going on. However, she knew she would soon find out. Already, she had an inkling. If Arthur had been conferring with Gaius and Merlin, it could only mean one thing: magic was involved.

She sat, as did everyone else. Everyone but Arthur. He stood in front of his chair and waited.

“Well, are you going to tell us what all this is about?” Brown asked once everyone was settled. He kept casting glares at Aurora and Thomas across the table from him, as if offended by their very presence. However, their attendance did lend to Gwen’s suspicions about magic at play. 

“Yes,” Arthur answered curtly. And then, addressing the room as a whole, he said, “As we know, Morgana has achieved immortality for her soldiers. Until recently, none of our weapons have been able to kill them. But Morgana herself doesn’t possess the power for this enchantment. From what I’m told, there’s only one thing that can do that. The very thing that brought my friends from Avalon.” 

Gwen tried to catch Merlin’s eyes, hoping to glean where this exposition was going.

“The Cup of Life,” Thomas voiced, sounding curious. “I’ve heard stories of it.”

Arthur nodded. “Yes. Morgana has had the Cup in her possession this whole time. And now, thanks to Merlin, we believe we know where she’s been hiding it.”

Everyone’s eyes quickly flickered to Merlin and then away again. Merlin gave a tight half-smile under the spotlight.

“You had a vision of this?” Darby wondered, directing the question at Merlin.

Merlin nodded. “I did. Last night.”

The thought of it didn’t sit right with Gwen. They had reason to doubt Merlin’s visions, even if there was no proof of him being under Morgana’s influence. She trusted his instincts, but she wondered if this was truly a vision from the Crystals. 

When she looked at Arthur, she found he, too, harboured the same doubts, though he hid them well. 

“Well, then, where is it?” the Commissioner asked. 

“We believe it’s in Cumbria, beneath the ruins of Furness Abbey.”

“That’s in the Neo Territory,” Gwaine pointed out. 

Arthur raised a brow. “Is that a problem, Sir Gwaine?” 

To this, Gwaine’s cheeks stretched into a sideways grin. “Never said I wasn’t up for a drive through the country.” 

“We wouldn’t have to drive. Rosewood has given us ships.” He took the map from Gaius and spread it out on the table before him. Pointing, he continued, “We could sail from Winchester to Furness without having to pass through their lands.”

“But the sea won’t lead you directly to the abbey,” Gwen pointed out, eyeing the stretch of land between the shore and their destination. It was at least five miles. “You’ll have to travel on land some of the way, no matter how brief. And if the Cup of Life is really there, it will be guarded.” 

Then, Merlin spoke. “There may be another way in. In the Middle Ages, there was rumour about the monks of the abbey having an underground tunnel from the castle on Piel Island—,” he pointed to the small blip of land in the channel offshore the mainland. As he continued to speak, he dragged the tip of his finger in a line up the map. “Through the abbey and up to Dalton Castle. No one’s ever been able to find the tunnel, but . . .” 

He shrugged, letting his thought die on his lips. 

Gwen knitted her brows together, her gaze boring into the map as if it could will the tunnel to reveal itself. 

“ _But_?” Brown chimed in. “I believe I speak for the committee when I say, we need more solid information than a magical cup that _may_ be in a tunnel that _may_ or may not exist.” 

The rest of the committee, though it appeared like it pained them to do so, agreed. 

“I think I’ll be able to find it. The tunnel would be warded with powerful magic. It’s no coincidence Morgana’s been hiding the Cup there. I believe it’s where Mordred had found it in the first place, where it had remained hidden for thousands of years,” Merlin said. “There were other rumours about that tunnel back in the day—and about the Cup.” 

Gwen blanched. Could the Cup of Life really have remained hidden in the same place for so long? 

Apparently, Gaius didn’t believe it, either. “I thought you said you gave the Cup to the Druids after Arthur’s death,” he asked, sounding only slightly accusatory. 

“I did. What they did with it after that was out of my hands.”

“I don’t believe they would have given it up so lightly,” Gwen said. She turned to Thomas and asked, “Have you heard any stories of what became of it?” 

Thomas appeared to think for a moment, but then shook his head. “None that are certain. The Cup of Life was always shrouded in secrecy, and only few of the chief Druids of old knew of its location. I doubt any credible information was passed down.”

“Yeah, but what about the Druids that became Christians?” Aurora piped in, seeming simultaneously excited and nervous that she could be wrong. She didn’t elaborate until Merlin asked her to continue. And then, like a student to a teacher, she answered, “It was like in those books about Druid history my dad made me read. After the Old Religion died out and the Druids disbanded, they spread all over. Some of them went to other religions, too—mostly Christianity. What if some of them became monks, and those monks hid the Cup of Life?” 

Gwen was impressed. It appeared Gaius was, too, judging by his eyebrows. She didn’t get the chance to survey Merlin or Arthur’s reactions until Lord Protector Owen spoke up.

“There are still too many uncertainties. I suggest we send a team into the tunnels for reconnaissance before engaging the troops. We can’t send our people into enemy territory based on ancient rumours.” 

“And if the tunnel _is_ hidden by magic?” Gwen posed. “What then?” 

“I should be able to break the enchantment. I’ll go with the team,” Merlin offered at once. 

“As will I,” said Arthur, inevitably.

At once, there was a chorus of _no_ , none louder than Merlin’s. Gwen would have chimed in herself, had she not known Arthur better. It was a lost cause. Trying to get Arthur to change his mind was like trying to keep the sea from breaking on the shore. 

“You’re to be crowned in a little over twenty-four hours, Arthur, for god’s sake!” Simmons snipped. 

“Crown me when the Neo-Druids are defeated,” Arthur answered. 

“That was not the arrangement,” said Darby. “We need a leader our people can put their faith in during this war. Someone they can rally behind.” 

“Have they not rallied already?”

“We can’t have our king running around tunnels in search of fairytales!”

“You would rather a king who sits in his chair all day without action? President Darby, I have seen the Cup before. I know what it can do, and it is no more a fairytale than you or me. I know my sister’s army can be destroyed once we have it.”

“Then, send the knights to retrieve it,” Gwen said at last. Perhaps Arthur didn’t trust anyone but himself for this quest, but she knew his faith in his men. Their hands were the next best thing as his own.

She looked to Lancelot across the table, and he immediately got the message.

“I will go, Arthur,” he said.

“And me,” Gwaine offered, his eyes on Merlin.

“We all will,” Elyan supplied. “You only need say the word.”

Arthur let out a heavy breath. He didn’t say anything for a long time—or, at least, nothing verbally. He was looking at Merlin, their eyes locked as if in a staring contest. Gwen wondered who would blink first. 

“Fine,” Arthur finally acquiesced. He bit out the word. It went against every fibre of his being to say it.

Gwen found herself relieved. It was good to know he’d become less brazen than in his days in Camelot. Perhaps he was learning the ways of this new world, after all.

“I will remain here in Winchester. The five of you will sail out within the hour,” he told his men. “Merlin will accompany you. You will make port on the isle and locate the tunnel. Should it exist, it will cover a span of nearly ten miles, if we’re going by what Merlin says. You’ll need to split up and enter the tunnel on different sides to cover the most ground. Once you find the entrance on the isle, take the ship to the mainland.

“Gwaine and Percival, you’ll take the entrance from Dalton Castle. Leon and Elyan, you go through the abbey. Take horses for your journey. Lancelot, the initial entrance Merlin finds will be yours.”

All of them nodded to show they understood their orders. 

“What will I do?” Merlin asked.

Simply, Arthur stated, “Find the tunnel, take down whatever enchantment is guarding it, and then go back to the ship to await the others.” 

Merlin snorted out a laugh. But, when Arthur glared at him, his expression fell. 

“I’m not waiting on the boat—!” 

“You’re welcome to wait in Winchester with me and send Thomas in your place!” 

Gwen cleared her throat to remind them there were other people present. Besides, she knew the argument was futile. Arthur couldn’t get Merlin to wait on the boat if he chained him down. If Arthur were the ocean waves, Merlin was the moon that pulled the tide. 

“It’s settled, then,” Arthur said, and appeared like he’d dismiss the meeting.

“Arthur, I will go, too,” Nathara spoke up.

Briefly, Gwen noticed Merlin tense. 

Arthur waved his hand to tell her to continue.

“We will be in enemy territory. There should be a scout above ground in case the area is guarded. I will look for any of Morgana’s soldiers and relay it to the others should the mission become compromised.” 

Everyone—but one, that is—seemed to agree. With the matter settled, Arthur dismissed the committee and one of the hall’s stewards was sent to the port to have a ship made ready.

“I think you’re doing the right thing in staying behind, Arthur,” Gaius said when the hall was devoid of everyone but he, Arthur, Merlin, and Gwen. “It could be you’ve sent your men into a trap, and Morgana expects you to be there.” 

Arthur nodded. “I’m aware of the risks.” His tone sounded heavy now, weary. It was something he couldn’t let out in front of the committee. He was worried for his men.

Gwen was worried, too. She did not wish to see any of her friends in chains again, subject to Morgana’s wrath. She looked at Merlin. “You’re _certain_ this was a true vision from the Crystals?” 

It was not a concern she could have voiced in front of the committee. If they knew of Morgana’s potential influence over Merlin, they would have never allowed the expedition. 

“Mhm. Positive.” 

Merlin thinned his lips when he said it, and nodded just a little too vigorously. His eyes were hyper-focused on meeting hers. It was enough for Gwen to know he wasn’t in the least bit positive. He was only hoping. They all were. 

“Well, my boy, we had better get you ready,” Gaius offered. 

“I think I know what I need. I’ll just have to pop on home before I take off.” 

Gwen noticed Arthur’s gaze on the floor, never looking up. He appeared a little too at ease with sending Merlin off without him. 

“Arthur?” she asked suspiciously. 

“Yes,” Arthur answered at once, seeming to come awake. “Merlin, get whatever you can. I’ll go to the port to ensure the ship captain knows his orders.” 

They all departed. Gwen stared at Arthur’s back as he brisked away. 

There wasn’t a chance in hell he was staying behind.

 

///

 

The ship was nearly ready to move out. His men would be gone within the hour, and never had Arthur felt such a sense of importance about a mission. If all went according to plan, the Neos would be defeated by sunrise tomorrow. Britain would be free to live in peace.

It would be over. Finally. After thousands of years, it would be finished.

And the committee expected Arthur to miss it!

Despite how unfair the sentiment was, Arthur chose to appear to grin and bear it. It was easier that way, rather than to make a scene. They hadn’t time for such dramatics, anyway. 

After returning from the shipyard, Arthur made for the Summer Palace. When he arrived, he found Merlin in their bedroom, seemingly packing the entire city in his ancient backpack.

“Merlin?” Arthur asked sceptically, leaning his shoulder against the door. 

Merlin didn’t react, especially not in surprise. He must have sensed Arthur coming before his car was even in the drive. “I’m almost ready.” 

Laid out on the bed were crystals and talismans, herbs and potions, and a Swiss army knife. Merlin carefully tucked them into his bag in turn. In Arthur’s opinion, he was severely over-packing. 

“You know Furness is only a few hours’ trip by boat? You won’t be gone for three months,” Arthur teased. 

Merlin’s shoulders dropped in a huff. “I just want to be prepared, in case—.” He didn’t finish his sentence. He didn’t need to. Morgana’s threat was also on Arthur’s mind. 

“You told Gwen you thought this dream was genuine,” Arthur reminded him, trying to settle both their nerves. They couldn’t let doubt in. 

“I’ve been wrong before.” 

Arthur’s brows shot into his fringe. “He admits it!”

Merlin glared over his shoulder, but he couldn’t hold it for long. Something softened in his expression when their eyes met. “What if—,” he began. 

“What if you find the Cup, defeat the Neos, and make sure Morgana can never harm anyone again? What if we end this tonight?” Arthur cut him off. It was forced optimism, but perhaps that was what they needed. Arthur’s insides were already steeled with a sensation he knew well—the one of going into battle—but his skin was still soft in the solace of their bedroom, so far from the war. He allowed it for the time, but only for Merlin.

“Imagine all the days off we’ll have once this war is over,” he continued, a smile forming on his face at the mere hope of it.

Merlin chuckled, too, if only a little, and directed it at his shoes. “What would _I_ do with a day off?” 

“Me, preferably.” 

Merlin’s laugh was more sincere now, and broke down some of the iron barriers Arthur held inside.

“Come on,” Arthur said, picking himself up from the doorframe and getting ready to leave. “You’d better get going now. I’ll meet you downstairs to see you off.” 

“You’re really okay with not going?” Merlin wondered, disbelief in his tone. 

“Of course, I’m not. But I understand why I must.” He turned around again to show Merlin he was serious. “Just—promise me you’ll be back in time for the ceremony.” 

“Only if you promise not to get crowned without me.”

“Like I’d ever hear the end of it. Now, come on. Get moving.”

“Yes, _sire_. I almost have everything in order.”

That hadn’t been the first time Arthur heard those words, fully complete with the biting _sire_ that always managed to sound insolent. However, it was the first time he’d heard it in a long time. The memory of it sent Arthur into a reverie, and he couldn’t help but to fall back against the door and simply watch Merlin prepare for the night ahead. 

But Merlin wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. He glanced over his shoulder again and said, “What now?” 

“Something’s different about you,” Arthur said, narrowing his eyes like he could pinpoint exactly what was different if he did. He pointed a finger at Merlin and added with conviction, “You’ve changed.”

Arthur had meant it as a compliment, but at once, he realised he must have said something wrong, because Merlin’s eyes flashed with a fear that he quickly tried to control. He looked like an animal on the other end of a rifle. “I’ve been alive for fifteen-hundred years. Of course, I’m different,” he said, trying to make it sound insouciant. He even added an eye roll for effect before returning to the bag he was packing. His movements were much more tense now. He carelessly stuffed everything in with frustration.

No wonder he’d been worried. He hadn’t understood what Arthur meant.

“That’s not what I’m talking about,” Arthur corrected, shaking his head. He picked himself up from his lean, moved next to Merlin, took him by the wrist, and tried to get his attention. At first, Merlin put up a fight under the guise of annoyance, but Arthur soon got Merlin to face him.

“Ever since we came to Winchester, you’ve changed _back_ ,” Arthur told him. He hadn’t really noticed it until that moment, but in small ways, Merlin had started to remind him of the man he knew in Camelot. “You’re acting more like yourself.”

For what must have been the first time in his life, Merlin looked like he didn’t know what to say. But Arthur knew what he was thinking. It was something else he’d forgotten until then. 

_I don’t want you to change. I want you to always be you._

He’d meant it then, and he still did.

Merlin feigned nonchalance with a shrug, and averted his eyes. “Sorry,” he joked, but his throat sounded tight.

Arthur took a moment to search Merlin’s face, every sharp line of it, and then let go of his hand. He backed slowly out of Merlin’s personal space. “So am I.” 

Merlin returned to packing the bag, but he seemed much more relaxed. Arthur started out of the room. At the door, he peered back at Merlin over his shoulder. If Arthur didn’t know better, he’d say Merlin was trying to hold back a giddy smile, but his cheeks were pressed with dimples despite his best efforts.

Arthur suddenly felt very light. He left the bedroom, knowing it wasn’t decent to feel so elated before such a quest took place. But he couldn’t convince his steps to stop springing.

 

///

 

Sailing to Piel Island stole the rest of the daylight hours, bringing them straight through sunset. The dying golden light reflecting on the water made the waves and currents appear like molten steel shifting in motion. 

Before their alliance with Rosewood, it had been a long time since Merlin was on a ship for such an extended time, ever since the dawn of flight. He’d always felt something pull at his heart when amongst the waves, with the sea stretching on forever in every direction, the impossible waiting on the other side of the horizon. In truth, the ocean made him feel lonely—full of a longing deeper than the blue around him. All bodies of water did. He’d spent most his life feeling lonely while looking at water.

But it was a good kind of hurt. It meant he still had hope.

That day, however, with the spring winds roughing the waves and breaking against the sides of the boat in white lace, Merlin barely glanced at the vast sea. He kept one eye always on Nathara, who stood at the bow of the boat like a watchdog. She’d been eager to go on the journey with them to the Neo Territory. The fact of it filled Merlin with dread. She could very well alert the Neo guards to their location once they arrived; or perhaps, if Merlin’s vision really had come from Morgana, Nathara was in on the plot. 

If that were true, he’d be glad to finally get the proof he needed to quell his uneasy feeling about her. But at what cost? Needless to say, he was glad Arthur was made to stay in Winchester, should the situation go awry.

The ship came into the bay after nightfall, with the bright stars scattered overhead refracting their twinkling light on the water. The knights seemed glad to be on dry land, the ocean to their backs. Only Merlin cast it a look over his shoulder, watching and listening to the waves heave and sigh, sounding like a giant breathing in sleep.

As they walked further inland on the tiny isle, Merlin sent out his magic, reaching through the sand and stone. He felt for any enchantment powerful enough to conceal a tunnel. He thought he felt something, as gentle as a feather streaked across the back of his neck. “This way,” he told the others, trusting the sensation. 

His companions all drew their swords and kept an eye out for any other presence on the island. Merlin didn’t anticipate any Neo guards, if there were any at all, there. They would have seen the ship arrive, anyway, which would make being stealth difficult. The island was too small to hide in, and not worth the bother of guarding. Any Neo soldiers would be stationed on the mainland, which sat like a shadow on the water just a few miles away.

As they neared the ruined wall of the stone castle, the feeling of magic jumped up in Merlin’s ribs. It took him by the hand and beckoned him forward, leading them to the watchtower closest to the sea. However, when they crowded inside the small space, the only things that awaited them were dust and the smells of salt and decay. 

“You sure there’s something here?” Gwaine asked, looking up and down for anything out of the ordinary.

Merlin bit the inside of his cheek, trying not to be disheartened. “I can feel it,” he said. The magic didn’t lie. _Something_ was drawing him closer.

“Look at this,” Lancelot told them. He was standing by one of the walls, running his hand along a block of stone.

Merlin came forward instantly, and squinted his eyes in the darkness. Elyan brought over one of the torches and held the light to the stone. Engraved into it, the edges rough and faded, was a small symbol, not hard to miss. A half circle, curved side facing downward, rested atop the point of a thin triangle. 

“It looks like a chalice,” Percival observed. 

Merlin met Lancelot’s eyes. They both knew this was the entrance to the tunnel. 

“How do we open it?” Nathara asked. 

Merlin ran his fingers along the grooves of the engraving and closed his eyes, willing the magic to flow through his skin. It responded to his touch. The symbol began to glow a soft amber colour. The same hue reflected in Merlin’s eyes.

There was a groan, and quick rattling beneath his feet. Dust rained down from above.

The knights jumped back, each of them looking up at the ceiling like it might crumble. Only Merlin and Nathara remained still.

The wall before them rolled away, revealing a dark passageway and a set of stone stairs leading downward. Everyone shined their torches into it, but the light was not strong enough to reveal how far down the stairs went. The beams were met only with an abyss. 

“The tunnel must go beneath the water,” Lancelot observed.

Merlin turned back to the others. “The enchantment should be lifted throughout the tunnel. The other entrances will be opened, too. You should get back to the boat and hurry to them. Lancelot and I will begin here.” 

Leon reminded him, “Arthur told you to stay on the ship.”

Merlin pulled an apathetic face and shrugged. “Arthur’s not here.” However, when Leon didn’t move, he groaned in frustration. “Look, we don’t know what kind of magic Morgana’s put on the Cup. It could be heavily warded. It’d better if I were there. If any of you find it, don’t touch it! Use your radios to call Lancelot. We’ll come find you.” 

Everyone nodded their assent and begin to start away, during which Leon muttered a, “Yes, my lord,” and promptly turned away to carry out his orders. 

“ _Whoa_!” Merlin shouted, taken by surprise at the title. He made to go after Leon, to beg him never to call him that again, but Lancelot clapped his hand on Merlin’s shoulder to stay him. 

Merlin looked at him, his eyes aghast. He needed to put a stop to that _my lord_ business before it turned into _your majesty_. 

However, he found Lancelot’s gaze lit with humour and lips curved into a grin. “You’d better get used to it, Merlin,” he teased. “Arthur isn’t the only one being crowned tomorrow. You’re the king consort.” 

Merlin withered at the reminder, which Lancelot caught. 

“You still don’t think you should be consort,” he guessed.

Merlin looked at the entrance of the tunnel, at the deep darkness. He didn’t know what dangers lay inside of it, but he knew he preferred them to this conversation.

“You and Arthur have built two kingdoms together now. What’s the harm in taking some of the credit?”

“It’s not my destiny,” he heard himself whisper. When he looked back, Lancelot was regarding him with sympathy. “I fear something horrible will happen because of it.”

Lancelot’s expression skewed into confusion. He stepped forward, as if conspiring. “What do you mean?”

Merlin opened his mouth to respond, to tell Lancelot of the vision he saw of Arthur’s death, but then something sounded from outside the tower. It was a rustling near the entrance. It couldn’t have been the knights. They would have been too far away by then.

“Did you hear that?” Merlin asked, but he realised he didn’t have to. Lancelot was already raising his blade. Merlin armed himself, too. His magic prickled against his fingertips. 

Just then, a silhouette filled out the doorway—a shadow with broad shoulders and a chin held high due to a regal upbringing. Arthur stepped into the light of the torch. 

Both Merlin and Lancelot said his name, Merlin with annoyance and Lancelot with surprise. 

“You didn’t really think I’d stay behind, did you?” Arthur said, a smirk licking his lips.

“How—?” Merlin stammered. He blinked, wondering how Arthur could be standing there. He would have sensed him coming.

Arthur understood his meaning, and he reached into the collar of his shirt and pulled out a string. A stone, orange and red in colour, was tied at the end of it. “Nathara gave me this. She said it would conceal me.”

“Amber,” Merlin said, eyeing the stone. He didn’t like the fact that Nathara had given it to Arthur. Arthur had probably asked her for it, and she gave it too willingly. It only made Merlin doubt himself. Perhaps this was one of Morgana’s tricks, after all. 

“How did you get here?” Lancelot asked in wonder. 

“I stowed away on the ship,” said Arthur.

“And when the committee finds out you’re here?”

“They won’t. They think I’m home, resting for the day ahead. I’ve instructed Ainsworth not to disrupt me.”

Merlin threw his hands up. Why couldn’t Arthur ever just stay put? But, he supposed, if he did, he wouldn’t be Arthur.

And if Merlin didn’t give him hell for it, he wouldn’t be Merlin.

“They’ll find out!” he argued. 

“They will, if we keep talking about it until daybreak!” Arthur shot back. “So, I suggest we get moving so we can all be back in time for the coronation.” 

Without another word, Arthur ripped the torch from Lancelot’s fist and started into the passageway. Lancelot gave Merlin another look, shrugged, and began after Arthur. 

Merlin wanted to stop them, to tell them this was a bad idea. Arthur’s presence gave him pause all of a sudden. He could not risk tempting Morgana this close to Arthur’s crowning. The timing was too suspicious. 

“Come on, Merlin!” Arthur’s voice echoed. 

There would be no stopping him. Merlin rued ever opening his mouth about his vision.

He rushed down the steps, knowing his only option now was to ensure no harm came to Arthur.

The steps went on for what felt like ages, the beam of the torch only bright enough to illuminate the stairs directly beneath them. Eventually, they hit the bottom, and Arthur flashed the torch along the walls, ceiling, and floor. The tunnel was made completely of stone, like it had been carved out of rock. The chilled air was thin and damp, and smelt strongly of brackish salt. There was a distant sound of water rushing above them.

“I think we’re under the water,” Lancelot said. “The stairs must have led us down the cliff of the island.”

Merlin took a closer look at the walls, and saw the stone was layered with different slabs of colour. He brought his hand to the icy surface, and found it was rough and grainy. “It’s bedrock.” Lancelot was right.

“We’d better get moving. The tunnel will lead us to the mainland,” said Arthur, nodding ahead. The three of them began walking in single file, as the tunnel wasn’t wide enough to permit anything else, with Arthur in the lead, Merlin behind him, and Lancelot bringing up the rear. 

“Do you think Morgana really knows of this place?” Lancelot asked after some time.

Merlin glanced over his shoulder at him. “If the Cup of Life really was hidden here, the Neos must know about it.”

“The question is, is it _still_ here?” said Arthur.

Merlin readjusted the straps of his backpack. He didn’t need to ask that question. He knew the Cup was there—somewhere. He couldn’t feel it yet, though he’d been trying to, but he knew it in his gut. Whether his dream had been a premonition or a trick, it didn’t matter. They were near the Cup. They could still succeed in destroying Morgana’s army.

At least, that’s what he told himself. 

“If it is, Morgana will have left traps,” Lancelot said.

“Don’t jinx us!” Merlin complained. 

He could almost feel Arthur roll his eyes. “Jinx us? Please, Merlin. Don’t be so superstitious.” 

They continued on for another twenty minutes, into which Merlin watched the line of Arthur’s shoulders tense with every passing step. Merlin understood his anxiety, and he felt it, too. Oxygen was becoming scarcer in the endless shadows, and it seemed like the passage was becoming narrower. Merlin focused on his breathing—in and out, in and out—and looked down at his feet, watching his steps instead of eyeing the way ahead. It slowed his heart a little, and calmed the heavy feeling in his gut, until Arthur scolded him.

“Stop breathing like that!”

“Oh, should I stop breathing now?” 

“It would be helpful.” 

“Do you smell that?” Lancelot wondered, interrupting their squabble. Arthur stopped short, and Merlin nearly rammed into his back. At the risk of annoying Arthur again, Merlin sniffed. Something pungent and sweet immediately arrested his senses. It smelt like the earth after a rainstorm.

“We’re nearing land,” he said.

Eager to be out from beneath the sea, they quickened their pace until eventually they came to an incline. The air became less thin, but no less stale. At the top of the incline, the tunnel widened out, and the ground beneath Merlin’s boots turned into soft earth. The walls and rounded ceiling were still stone, but it had been built from blocks instead of chiselled from rock.

“Oh, thank god,” Arthur breathed, voicing all of their relief.

Merlin spotted a metal torch hanging from the wall and lifted it from its sconce, brushing away the cobwebs as he did. His eyes glowed, and the wick burst into flame. Arthur looked over his shoulder at him, his eyes burning in the orange light. Merlin’s cheeks erupted in a grin, but he didn’t go quite as far as to tell Arthur that it was nice to see his face again.

Arthur gave a gentle smile in return, his eyes softening into it as they dragged up and down Merlin’s features. And, briefly, Merlin was glad Arthur disobeyed the committee and came along. 

After Merlin handed the torch to Lancelot, they started forward again, keeping an eye out for any crevices or trap doors where the Cup might have been hidden—or that could spell disaster for them. Once, they came upon an adjacent shaft, and they debated momentarily about which way to go. The way they picked, however, ended up being a dead-end, and caused them to double back.

On another occasion, they found another shaft blocked by an iron gate. It creaked opened when Arthur jiggled it, but they did not move inside. “Where do you think it leads?” 

Both Merlin and Lancelot peeked their heads inside. The shaft seemed to go upwards, and the air was fresher. Merlin casted his sight ahead, and found it led outside, where the silver light of the moon lit up another gate nestled into rock face of a ravine.

“It’s an exit shaft,” he reported.

“Are there any guards blocking it?” asked Lancelot, his voice hushed.

“None that I saw.”

After that, they moved on for another hour, the stone around them remaining their only constant scenery. It was then that Lancelot’s walkie crackled into life, and Gwaine’s voice came from the other end.

“Nothing on our end,” he said. “We went as far as we can go. Ran into some gate in the tunnel blocking our way further. It won’t budge.” 

“We came across one of those, too,” said Leon, who, with Elyan, had been searching the tunnels beneath the abbey. “It was probably the same gate. You’re just on the other side of it.”

“Nathara, have you spotted any Neos?” Leon’s voice came again.

“None,” said Nathara, but Merlin didn’t know whether or not to believe her. 

Arthur took the walkie from Lancelot and spoke into it. “Gwaine, Percival, head back above ground. Go to the abbey. We’ll all meet there once the search is finished. Be on your guard for Morgana’s soldiers.” 

There was a pause, and then: “Aren’t you supposed to be in Winchester?”

Arthur groaned and rolled his eyes.

“Just—go to the abbey, will you?”

Another half hour passed before Leon and Elyan reported in again, telling them they found another gate barring their way. They’d found no sign of the Cup, either, and headed for the abbey.

“That must mean, if it is here, it’s close to us,” said Lancelot.

“ _If_ it’s here,” Arthur repeated. 

On their way, they passed another exit shaft, and the tunnel began to make way for more connecting warrens. However, it was no longer just flint and earth. The walls were hollowed out into crypts, where stone coffins rested in some and bare bones in the other. Many of the skeletons were decayed beyond recognition, only a few bones and tattered remnants of burial cloth left.

“This isn’t ominous at all,” Arthur muttered, eyeing the crypts.

“We must be getting closer to the abbey,” Merlin reasoned, trying to quell Arthur’s uneasiness. In truth, there was no reason to be afraid of the tombs. During the War, people used catacombs like this to shelter themselves from the bomb’s aftermath. In those, however, there would be fresher skeletons, none of them properly entombed. 

Up ahead was a tunnel off shooting from the main one. An opened gate granted access to it, leading to more tombs.

Beyond the gate, there seemed to be a decline as the catacombs wound further into the earth. A lot more moss and dank vegetation grew from the discoloured stones. Merlin narrowed his eyes down the path until the light was lost and darkness took over. A chill rattled his spine and set into his bones. Something was down there. He could feel it in the way his magic thrummed against his temples and wove through his veins.

“Down there,” he whispered, barely. His voice didn’t even echo off the walls. He rushed beyond the gate, and at once his magic spiked in warning. 

The iron echoed as it crashed shut behind him.

Merlin whirled around as both Arthur and Lancelot called his name. They were still on the opposite side, running towards the metal. Arthur wrapped his fists around the bars and shook. It made a few sharp clangs, but that was all. 

“It’s locked,” he assessed, quite needlessly. Merlin had assumed that as soon as he heard the gate slam. 

Through the bars, Lancelot looked at him hopefully. “Can you open it?”

Merlin came closer to the gate and held up his palm. His eyes yielded to gold, and he immediately felt the force of his magic backlash. It bounced off the gates like it had been attached to an invisible yo-yo. Merlin winced at the sudden, quick stinging pain that hit him. It was gone as quickly as it had flared up—just a rush of blood to the head. 

“It’s enchanted,” he reported. 

Arthur’s hands were still on the bars and his grip hadn’t slackened. “Aren’t you more powerful that it?” he said through gritted teeth. Merlin saw the worry in the hard line of Arthur’s jaw, so he ignored the frustration in his tone. 

“I can break it, but it could take some time,” he answered in a level voice, “and we shouldn’t linger. I’ll try to find another way out.” 

There was still a tingling in his mind. It was magic. Powerful magic, drawing him in. He looked over his shoulder as though he could see its source.

He knew this was a trick, and probably a trap. But he’d already fallen for the bait, so he might as well see it through—him, alone, with Arthur safely on the other side of the danger. He knew he’d have to be on his guard. Already, his magic was settling against his skin like the hackles on a dog. 

“Absolutely not!” Arthur barked. “I’m not letting you gallivant through a labyrinth of tombs on your own, _Mer_ lin!”

Next to him, Lancelot nodded in solidarity. “He’s right, Merlin,” he said, his voice much softer and reasonable than Arthur’s. “We should stick together. We don’t know when Morgana set this trap.” 

The force in the shadows was growing ever stronger. It tugged at Merlin. He felt like a puppet on its string. It _had_ to be the Cup. He hadn’t felt a presence so strong, so akin to his own magic, in centuries. It drowned out all other sense or feeling. It was a relic of the Old Religion, like him, calling out. He had to find it. He had to make sure no one, especially Mordred, could ever wield it again. 

If there was even a _chance_ of finding the Cup, he had to take it. They couldn’t have a repeat of the last time it was used.

“No, we don’t,” he agreed thoughtfully. His eyes flashed to Arthur. He couldn’t tell him the Cup was nearby. It would only strengthen Arthur’s resolve to stick together. “I’ll find a way around and meet you at the abbey,” he promised instead. “Head back to the last exit shaft we saw and make your way to the others above ground.”

“Merlin—!”

“Arthur.”

Arthur took in a sharp breath and looked away. He was torn knowing what he had to do wasn’t what he wanted to do. Merlin stayed patient. “Fine,” Arthur decided at last. “We’ll find the exit and meet you at the abbey.”

Merlin nodded once. He looked at Lancelot briefly, but heavily. He hadn’t forgotten that Nathara was still at large, and Morgana could be close. Even if Lancelot didn’t understand the warning for such a particular danger in Merlin’s stare, he understood the gist of it. Merlin knew he’d keep Arthur safe.

Then, he returned his eyes to Arthur. He said, “If I’m not there in an hour, leave without me.” 

Arthur’s head snapped up to show how wide his eyes were. He opened his mouth, no doubt to yell, but Merlin prevented him. “I mean it. Go. You can’t risk waiting around for me longer than you need to.”

“Merlin—.”

“I’ll find my own way home.”

Arthur scoffed and looked down again. Lancelot’s face tightened, but he did not object.

The power radiating off the Cup was incessant now. It felt like a hammer knocking at Merlin’s skull.

“You can’t expect me to do that,” Arthur said, his voice far away.

Merlin stepped closer to the bars. He wrapped one hand around Arthur’s fist. “An hour,” he repeated once he had Arthur’s attention. He offered a small, consoling smile—a promise that he’d be there in time. 

Arthur exhaled heavily. It was the only confirmation Merlin would get. He squeezed Arthur’s fingers before letting go, and Arthur too let his arms fall to his sides.

“Go,” he ordered.

Merlin allowed himself one more look at Arthur, clocking every familiar feature, before turning on his heels. He tried not to turn around again, despite the thumping in his chest. A million thoughts ran through his head, each of them for Arthur. Merlin did not say any of them. They all sounded too much like _goodbye_. 

And it wasn’t goodbye. He’d find his way back to Arthur. He always did, in one way or another. All paths led to Arthur. 

“Merlin.”

He turned sharply, his breath trapped in his throat. Arthur paused. He was regarding Merlin beseechingly. “Be careful,” he said, though it was not what he’d wanted to. 

A sudden grin cracked Merlin’s face. The whole situation brought back a memory. They’d been in similar circumstances before, and Arthur had said the same thing to him. Even then, he’d wanted to say something else. Only now, Merlin heard the true meanings of the words. 

“Me?” 

Arthur’s brows knitted together in a memory just out of reach. Merlin doubled his pace until he no longer had the torchlight painting the cavern walls. Distantly, he heard movement and whispers as Arthur and Lancelot went in the opposite direction. Soon, those sounds faded. All that accompanied Merlin in the dark were the sounds of his footfalls, his beating heart and quick breaths, and water dripping with a _clunk_ against the stone.

None of it was as loud as the humming vibrations of the magic beckoning him onwards. 

It was too dark for him to see, and his eyes had nothing to adjust to. He held out his palm to make a glowing blue orb illuminate before him. It hovered around him, dancing about his shoulders, as he paced further.

The temperature seemed to drop with each step. Everything about this portion of the catacombs was different than the other. In fact, in comparison, the first section of the tombs was as cheerful and bright as a summer day. Here, the stone walls inside the vaults were chipped and worn from water damage. The headstones were cracked with jagged lines that made the names on them impossible to decipher. The ground was uneven and torn up, so much so that Merlin would trip if he didn’t watch where he was going. A few times, he came across human or animal remains. They were mostly full skeletons, either left inside a vault or strewn on the ground; but he once noticed a stray skull that seemed to have gotten there by its own independent means. 

And all the time, his magic led him on. The tingling in his head was causing a twinge of paranoia as he drew closer. He was wary of his own breath fogging about him. The echoing noises he produced made him jump. A few times, he was certain he heard someone else moving about behind him. The shadows in the corners of his eyes played tricks on him.

His heart was thrashing against his breastbone now. He was close. 

The tunnel came to a fork. He stopped and closed his eyes, letting his subconscious pick the right direction. It moved him left. He rounded a turn, where the vaults in the wall were crumbled in on each other. There was only one that was still a perfect, pristine square.

The Cup sat inside it. The blue light of the orb reflected off the silver and made everything on the Cup’s surface look like a fun house mirror.

Merlin froze. He listened. There were no sounds, save for the squeaking of rats. Slowly, he paced towards the Cup. He realised there was a thin layer of dust caking it, and the gossamers of silky spider webs were draped around it like a curtain. 

He didn’t know how long the Cup had been there. Morgana and Mordred would have never abandoned it. Perhaps they only put it there for safekeeping—deep in the maze of tunnels, far from where any normal person would give up the search. Perhaps the closing gate was just an enchantment to trap anyone who actually managed to get that far. The victim would be locked tightly inside until Morgana returned to drink the life from him like a spider with its prey.

On the subject of spiders, one scurried around the rim of the goblet. Merlin reached up and brushed the creature off of it, and took some of the sticky webs while he was at it. The back of his knuckles brushed against the metal. It was warm, and it vibrated like a living thing. Merlin instantly remembered its touch from his youth. 

He glanced around again. No one was there. Surely it couldn’t have been so easy?

There was only one way to find out.

With his stomach in knots and a lump in his throat, he reached for the Cup with both hands. The orb by his shoulder pulsed as the magic inside him bubbled up. He clasped the Cup and picked it up.

Nothing happened. 

He waited. 

Nothing happened. 

He breathed.

He looked inside the goblet and saw thick red liquid—the drops of blood of Morgana’s army mixed into one. Without a second thought, he turned the Cup over, but the contents remained.

 _Damn_. His good luck didn’t hold. It appeared the Cup was enchanted so the blood wouldn’t spill. However, Merlin knew a quick swipe of Arthur’s sword against the metal should break the spell. The blade could kill anything, even the undead. 

Carefully but hurriedly, he put the Cup in his backpack. He could still feel the power of it pulsing in his palms, like he was still holding it. He peered around, trying to determine a way out. He went back to the fork in the tunnels and used magic to foresee where each direction led. 

The left was a dead end, so he picked the right tunnel.

 

///

 

The entrance to the tunnel rested in the ruined nave of the abbey amongst a wall of archways. There, the knights, who tied the horses to the broken columns and slept on the stone slabs or fresh grass of the yard, waited for Merlin to return. Nathara rejoined them not long after Lancelot and Arthur arrived, and relieved Elyan of his watch so he, too, could get some rest. 

Lancelot, however, could not sleep a wink. Neither could Arthur, who was not satisfied with relying on the entrance of the abbey alone, reasoning that Merlin might not find his way back to the main tunnel in the labyrinth below. The two of them scoured the grounds of the abbey, monastery, and graveyard for an exit shaft, and eventually found one in a mausoleum jutting out from the bottom of the hill beneath the cemetery. 

Most of the rocks making up the tomb’s arch had fallen or crumbled away, and spidery tendrils that might have once been ivy wrapped around the metal bars of the gate. There was a sign, faded letters reading _private property: keep out_ , posted on the gate. 

Both Arthur and Lancelot gave opening it a try. The metal was rusted, and should have been easy to break into, but it was as if the bars were cemented into the archway. It reminded Lancelot of the exit shaft in Camelot’s dungeons that Merlin sometimes snuck through when he needed to leave the city unseen. The only way he got past those bars was by blowing them open with magic.

Lancelot was certain Merlin could do the same with this gate. He tried to think positively and remain calm. After all, Arthur was antsy enough for the both of them.

He paced back and forth in front of the entrance. Every so often, he peered into the gate and flashed the torch in his hand down the narrow flight of stone steps. The light was lost to the darkness before it reached the bottom, and Lancelot wondered how deep into the earth the catacombs went. 

Lancelot stood with his back to a tree trunk, watching as Arthur’s silent worry grew with every passing moment. His anxiety was infectious, especially as time went on.

Time. It seemed to be going at a snail’s pace, but still much too quickly for Lancelot’s liking.

He knew it was his duty to protect Arthur when Merlin couldn’t; however, in this case, that could mean abandoning Merlin, which was something Lancelot was not prepared to do. When the gate in the tunnel had separated them, they’d all realised it was very likely Morgana was near, even though they hadn’t seen a sign of any Neos—which was suspicious in and of itself. 

Lancelot dreaded the thought of leaving Merlin behind with so many uncertainties. 

He took a breath, trying to push the thoughts from his mind. However, one simple fact remained: “It’s been over an hour, Arthur.” 

Arthur, who had taken off the charm Nathara had given him in hopes of leading Merlin to him, didn’t stop pacing as he shot Lancelot a glare. “Do you suggest we leave him to rot?” he nearly spit out. 

“I’d never do such a thing, but perhaps we should begin preparing to leave, and send someone to the boat to ready our arrival. Maybe by that time, Merlin will have gotten out.” It was better than standing around holding their breath. At least having something to do would occupy their thoughts.

“And if not?”

“He probably just got lost in the tunnels. He’ll find his way out.” His voice had been a lot brighter than he actually felt. His insides were in tight bundles whenever he so much as looked at the gate.

Arthur came to a halting stop and flailed his hands in aggravation. “He should be out _already_! What’s taking him so long?” He began to pace again, this time with his face set in determination, as though the sheer will of his frustration could cause Merlin to appear. He muttered, “We should have never left him.” 

Lancelot tried to reason, “He’s been on his own for a long time. I’m certain he can handle it.”

“He thinks so, too! Which is exactly why we shouldn’t have left him!” Arthur maintained. “He thinks he’s invincible.” 

Lancelot chuckled, “Isn’t he?”

Arthur stilled again. His shoulders dropped in a heavy breath. He put his hands to his hips, not impatiently but thoughtfully. Lancelot got the feeling that Arthur was blaming himself for something, and he thought he knew what.

Merlin was not invincible. Not anymore, not since the day Arthur returned from Avalon. He still couldn’t die, but there were fates worse than that. When he’d been alone all those centuries, all Merlin had to look after was himself. He’d be cautious; he’d do what he must to avoid trouble so he could be at Arthur’s side when he returned. 

But now, Arthur’s safety was all Merlin cared about. He’d completely forget his own sense of self-preservation as long as Arthur was alive and well. Where Arthur was involved, Merlin didn’t think straight. He never had.

Perhaps they shouldn’t have left him alone, after all . . . 

“I know you worry for him,” Lancelot said softly, forcing down his own nerves, “but Merlin always manages to scrape through whatever trouble he faces. Why should this time be any different?”

Arthur must have decided pacing wasn’t going to bring Merlin to them any sooner. He leaned against the tree trunk, too, but his eyes remained fixed on the gate. “I know,” he breathed, running and hand through his hair. His anger seemed to have dwindled, leaving only raw fear that they’d lost Merlin.

Lancelot knew the feeling.

“But I can’t let him do something stupid for me.”

Lancelot nudged his shoulder and reminded him, “It wouldn’t be the first time.” 

He’d tried to be playful, to lighten the mood, but Arthur only shot him a weary look out of the corners of his eyes. “You would know better than me,” he muttered, and Lancelot tried to remind himself it had nothing to do with him. 

Clearing his throat, Arthur continued, “But it’s different now. Left to his own devices, he’d do something _really_ stupid because he knows—.” He let his breath catch abruptly, and shook his head at the grass.

“That you love him?” Lancelot said knowingly. 

He expected Arthur’s expression to turn to stone. He expected Arthur to glower at him, to lash out, to put Lancelot in his place. He did not expect Arthur to soften. His eyes, big and glistening, searched Lancelot’s face as though he were a lost child seeking help. Lancelot found it hard to look at. He felt as though he were intruding upon Arthur’s vulnerability, something he’d only caught glimpses of before. 

“ _Does_ he know?” Arthur whispered, and Lancelot didn’t quite understand his meaning until Arthur cleared his throat again, looked back to the gate, and began to explain in a voice full of pushed strength. “I’ve tried to do right by him—I _am_ trying. It’s my fault he couldn’t tell me about his magic in Camelot. I should have treated him better. I want him to know that he can trust me now, but I don’t think he does.” 

“Arthur, never think that. Of course, he trusts you.”

“Then why doesn’t he want to be consort?” Arthur nearly shouted, his voice cracking with emotion.

“He’s already agreed—.”

“I know he’s _agreed_ , but he doesn’t want it. He’s worried about his _destiny_.” Arthur bit down on the word and rolled his eyes into it. Then, he settled, his frustration leaving him exhausted. His shoulders slumped. “He doesn’t tell me of his visions, and he thinks he’s alone in whatever he’s facing. He believes his place is here—,” he gestured vaguely to the tomb, “fighting. And that mine is in Winchester. I don’t know what else to do to show him his place is at my side.”

Lancelot didn’t quite know what to say. He had never expected Arthur to trust him with his emotions in such a way. At once, he knew it was his obligation to not let Arthur down. For that, he could only give him the truth.

“Arthur, I can’t pretend to understand Merlin’s mind, but I think you misunderstand him,” he said. “He does what he does so that he can _remain_ at your side. Merlin is the bravest man I’ve ever known, and I often wish I could be more like him. I told him this once, and he said he fought because he had something more important than anything. I don’t believe he was speaking of Albion, or of destiny. He was speaking of you.”

Arthur continued to stare forward, though it appeared as though the words reached him. He didn’t look as miserable as he had before.

“I want him to fight _with_ me,” he said, “not _for_ me.”

“I know. But, to him, I don’t think there’s a difference. He doesn’t act because he distrusts you. He acts because, even as young man, Merlin had lost so much. To lose you . . . Well, you’ve seen what that’s done to him.” 

“So, you’re saying I’m his weakness?” 

Lancelot didn’t mean that at all. “Love is not a weakness, Arthur. It’s why we fight. And it’s the only thing worth having.”

Arthur closed his eyes, mulling over the words. After a long pause, he said, “Guinevere is lucky to have you. I am pleased for her.”

The words stilled Lancelot completely. Even his heart skipped a beat, and the words lifted a weight from him chest. He was glad there was no animosity or jealousy between them anymore. At last, Arthur saw him as a friend.

He did not notice the faint blue glow ebbing from the shadows beyond the gate.

He thought he heard Arthur draw in a sharp breath and blink a little too rapidly as he turned towards the light. “What is that?” he asked, narrowing his eyes. He stepped forward, his hand on the hilt of his sword.

Lancelot did the same. Something in the back of his mind told him to prepare for danger.

The light grew brighter, soon revealing itself to be an orb floating up the steps. Merlin was a step out of stride with it. A grin cracked his face when he saw Arthur and Lancelot. “I thought I said an hour,” he joked.

Lancelot breathed out a laugh and relaxed his sword.

“Merlin! It’s about time!” Arthur called, sounding as relieved as Lancelot felt. Then, his face fell. “Did you find it?”

“I found it. It’s in my pack.”

“Then, we’ll take it back to Winchester. Open this gate so we can all go home.”

Merlin nodded. He held his palm up to the gate, and his eyes flashed. In the same moment, Lancelot knew in gut that the exit was enchanted, like the other gate had been. He jumped, giving an alarmed sound for Merlin to stop a moment too late.

There was a blast of rubble. He saw it knock Merlin off his feet and back down the stairs before the rocks in the archway began raining down. The blast threw Lancelot backwards, and small pebbles and debris cut into his skin. He heard Arthur shout in agony.

The rocks had settled, but a cacophony still sounded in Lancelot’s ears. His pulse panicked, and he saw Arthur was already on his feet, shouting and struggling. He was attempting to pull the fallen wall of rocks from the archway with only his left hand. His right arm was cradled against his chest, his wrist already discolouring with a blooming bruise. 

“Arthur! We won’t get through that way!” Lancelot yelled, trying to get Arthur to come to his senses.

Arthur continued on. “I won’t leave him!”

Neither would Lancelot. He found the torch amongst the rubble and scooped it up.

“We go through the abbey,” he suggested hurriedly, and shot off in the direction of the nave. Arthur followed after him, and was soon in front of him by a few strides. 

When they got there, the knights and Nathara were on their feet, all looking ready for battle.

“We heard an explosion,” Leon said.

“Go to the exit shaft and begin clearing the rocks!” Arthur ordered over his shoulder as he rushed towards the tunnel. He drew his sword, and Lancelot saw him wince before switching it to his left hand. Lancelot pulled his weapon, too, and ran after him as the others started down the hill.

They raced through the tunnels together until they came to the gate that had barred Elyan and Leon from going any further. It was wide open now, which worried Lancelot. Immediately, the fact of it caused his blood to run cold. He thought he knew who’d opened it. Arthur must have thought it, too, but he didn’t pause before running through it. 

Lancelot kept after him, not wanting to let Arthur out of his sight.

After some time, they came to a split in the tunnels. Arthur finally slid a stop, his heavy breaths audible as Lancelot shone his torch down each direction. The darkness gave nothing away. Lancelot’s lungs were on fire.

“Which way?” he managed to say.

Arthur seemed to make up his mind. “This way!” he decided, and raced down the right-hand passage. Lancelot followed.

At the end of it, passed broken tombs and scattered bones, they came upon the stone stairs to the outside. 

“Merlin!” Arthur yelled, but only his echoes answered him. 

The stairs were too narrow to climb at the same time. Lancelot followed Arthur up until they both nearly slipped on the loose gravel and dust from the rock fall. Merlin wasn’t there. 

Lancelot gaped at the impenetrable rock wall, fearing the worst—that Merlin was buried beneath the wreckage. On the other side, he heard the knights’ voices and calls as the rocks shifted under their efforts. 

Then, he brought the beam of light from his torch down to their feet. Merlin’s backpack lay on the steps. It was open, and its contents were scattered in around it. However, the Cup of Life wasn’t amongst them.

Arthur knelt down and rested his sword on the steps. He picked up the bag with his good hand, scrunching the soft leather in his fist like a dog picking up a scent. Or perhaps he just needed something of Merlin’s to hold on to—something tangible.

Over Arthur’s shoulder, Lancelot’s eyes were glued to the bag. He realised, before, he hadn’t feared the worst. What had really happened was far more terrible. 

Merlin was at the mercy of the two people who hated him most. 

* * *

**_Book III: The Same Coin_** is out now.

* * *

 

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here we are again......... Thanks so much to everyone who returned to read book 2! I'm so glad you're here, and I hope you enjoyed it! And thank you for being so patient with me in the release. (I hate having a full time job and being an adult ugh would not recommend.)
> 
> As always, credit to the lovely [mushroomtale](http://mushroomtale-fanart.tumblr.com/) for her beautiful artwork. Lyns, my dear, I am in constant and unceasing awe of you.
> 
> I'll get book 3 out as soon as humanly possible! (I appreciate your patience again.) And, I know I promised a soundtrack when I posted book 1........ I still don't have it ready. ("Job. Adult. Ugh." You remember.)
> 
> Hopefully, I'll see you back here for the third and final installment! In the meantime, drop by [my tumblr](http://colinmorgasms.tumblr.com/) and say hey.


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